pass.
"They're friends of mine! I couldn't say good-bye—I'll just be a minute. For God's sake, let me see them!"
The guard was unmoved and ordered him to step back.
Gian Maria wandered through the airport, not knowing what to do or whom to confide in. He knew one thing only: He had to speak to that woman, wherever she was, whatever it cost—even if he had to follow her to the ends of the earth.
As they exited the plane onto the boarding steps, they felt the slap of heat in their face and inhaled air thick with the smell of spices. They were home again, home in the East.
Ahmed, carrying a Louis Vuitton bag, preceded Clara down the steps. Behind her, four men, scattered throughout the queue of passengers, moved forward to keep her in sight, trying to go unnoticed.
Ahmed and Clara had no problem passing through customs. Their diplomatic passports opened every door, and Amman, however much it had sworn loyalty to Washington, had its own foreign policy, which did not include confrontations with Saddam Hussein, even if his policies were not always to Jordan's liking. The East was the East, after all, and the otherwise very Westernized Jordanian royal family were experts in the subtleties of diplomacy.
A car was waiting for the couple just outside the terminal, and it drove them to the Marriott. It was late, so they had dinner in their room. There was still tension between them.
"I'm going to call my grandfather." "That's not a good idea." "Why not? We're in Amman."
"And the Americans have eyes and ears everywhere. We'll be crossing the border tomorrow. Can't you wait?" "Really, I can't. I feel like talking to him."
"God, I'm tired of you doing whatever you feel like. You should be more prudent, Clara."
"I've spent my whole life hearing that I ought to be more discreet, that I ought to be more prudent, and nobody ever told me why."
"Ask your grandfather," Ahmed shot back nastily.
Clara did not respond to that. The truth was, she wasn't sure whether she wanted Ahmed, or anyone, to confirm her intuitions, which had only grown through the years. There were so many loose ends. . . . She'd been born in Baghdad, like her mother, and spent her childhood and adolescence between that city and Cairo. She loved the two cities equally. It had been hard for her to convince her grandfather to let her finish her studies in the U.S. She finally managed, even though she knew it made him terribly uneasy.
She'd loved California. San Francisco was where she'd grown into a woman, but she'd always known she wouldn't stay and live there. She missed the Middle East—its smells, its tastes, its sense of time—and she missed speaking Arabic. She thought in Arabic, felt in Arabic. That was why she'd fallen in love with Ahmed. American boys seemed dull, flat to her, even though they'd taught her all the things that were forbidden to her, as a woman, in the East.
"I don't care," she said finally, reaching for the phone. "I'm going to call him."
She rang the front desk and asked to be put through to Baghdad. It was several minutes before she heard Fatima's voice. "Fatima! It's me, Clara!"
"My darling girl, how wonderful to hear you! Let me call the master."
"He's not asleep?"
"No, no—he's reading in his study. He'll be so happy to hear you." Over the phone, distantly, she could hear Fatima calling Ali, her grandfather's manservant, telling him to call the master. And then he was on the line. "Clara, my dear ..." "Grandfather ..." "You're in Amman?"
"We just got in. I'm dying to see you, to be home again. To be honest, Rome didn't go very well." "I know." "You know?"
"Of course I know, Clara." "But how?"
"It surprises you that I know things?"
"No, of course not, but ..."
The old man sighed wearily. "Where's Ahmed?"
"Right here."
"Good. I've prepared a wonderful welcome for you both. Now let me speak to your husband a moment."
Clara held the telephone out to Ahmed, and he took it and spoke for a few seconds with his wife's
"They're friends of mine! I couldn't say good-bye—I'll just be a minute. For God's sake, let me see them!"
The guard was unmoved and ordered him to step back.
Gian Maria wandered through the airport, not knowing what to do or whom to confide in. He knew one thing only: He had to speak to that woman, wherever she was, whatever it cost—even if he had to follow her to the ends of the earth.
As they exited the plane onto the boarding steps, they felt the slap of heat in their face and inhaled air thick with the smell of spices. They were home again, home in the East.
Ahmed, carrying a Louis Vuitton bag, preceded Clara down the steps. Behind her, four men, scattered throughout the queue of passengers, moved forward to keep her in sight, trying to go unnoticed.
Ahmed and Clara had no problem passing through customs. Their diplomatic passports opened every door, and Amman, however much it had sworn loyalty to Washington, had its own foreign policy, which did not include confrontations with Saddam Hussein, even if his policies were not always to Jordan's liking. The East was the East, after all, and the otherwise very Westernized Jordanian royal family were experts in the subtleties of diplomacy.
A car was waiting for the couple just outside the terminal, and it drove them to the Marriott. It was late, so they had dinner in their room. There was still tension between them.
"I'm going to call my grandfather." "That's not a good idea." "Why not? We're in Amman."
"And the Americans have eyes and ears everywhere. We'll be crossing the border tomorrow. Can't you wait?" "Really, I can't. I feel like talking to him."
"God, I'm tired of you doing whatever you feel like. You should be more prudent, Clara."
"I've spent my whole life hearing that I ought to be more discreet, that I ought to be more prudent, and nobody ever told me why."
"Ask your grandfather," Ahmed shot back nastily.
Clara did not respond to that. The truth was, she wasn't sure whether she wanted Ahmed, or anyone, to confirm her intuitions, which had only grown through the years. There were so many loose ends. . . . She'd been born in Baghdad, like her mother, and spent her childhood and adolescence between that city and Cairo. She loved the two cities equally. It had been hard for her to convince her grandfather to let her finish her studies in the U.S. She finally managed, even though she knew it made him terribly uneasy.
She'd loved California. San Francisco was where she'd grown into a woman, but she'd always known she wouldn't stay and live there. She missed the Middle East—its smells, its tastes, its sense of time—and she missed speaking Arabic. She thought in Arabic, felt in Arabic. That was why she'd fallen in love with Ahmed. American boys seemed dull, flat to her, even though they'd taught her all the things that were forbidden to her, as a woman, in the East.
"I don't care," she said finally, reaching for the phone. "I'm going to call him."
She rang the front desk and asked to be put through to Baghdad. It was several minutes before she heard Fatima's voice. "Fatima! It's me, Clara!"
"My darling girl, how wonderful to hear you! Let me call the master."
"He's not asleep?"
"No, no—he's reading in his study. He'll be so happy to hear you." Over the phone, distantly, she could hear Fatima calling Ali, her grandfather's manservant, telling him to call the master. And then he was on the line. "Clara, my dear ..." "Grandfather ..." "You're in Amman?"
"We just got in. I'm dying to see you, to be home again. To be honest, Rome didn't go very well." "I know." "You know?"
"Of course I know, Clara." "But how?"
"It surprises you that I know things?"
"No, of course not, but ..."
The old man sighed wearily. "Where's Ahmed?"
"Right here."
"Good. I've prepared a wonderful welcome for you both. Now let me speak to your husband a moment."
Clara held the telephone out to Ahmed, and he took it and spoke for a few seconds with his wife's
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