Princess by Jean P. Sasson Read Free Book Online Page A

cold milk. I was thirteen, but small for my age; she cuddled me in her lap for a long time.
    Unfortunately, Sara’s tears served only to harden Father’s heart. I overheard her entreaties to him. She became so unbalanced in her grief that she accused our father of hating women. She spat out a verse of Buddha: “Victory breeds hatred, for the conquered are unhappy....” Father, his back rigid with anger, turned and walked away. Sara wailed at his back that she would have been better off unborn, since her pain so overweighed her happiness. With an ugly voice, Father responded by saying that her wedding date would be moved up to avoid stretching out her pain of anticipation.
    Father normally came to our villa once every fourth night. Men of the Muslim faith, with four wives, rotate their evenings so that each wife and family is given an equal amount of time. It is a serious situation when a man refuses to go to his wife and children, a form of punishment. Our villa was in such an uproar with Sara’s suffering that Father instructed Mother, who was his first and therefore his head wife, to inform his other three wives that he would rotate among their villas, but not ours. Before he left the villa, Father curtly told Mother to cure her daughter of her feverish resentments and to guide her peacefully to her destiny, which in his words was that of a “dutiful wife and good mother.” I barely recall the weddings of my other sisters. I vaguely remember tears, but I was so young and the emotional trauma of marriage to a stranger had not yet penetrated my thoughts. But I can close my eyes today and bring to mind every detail of the events that occurred the months before Sara’s wedding, the wedding itself, and the sad events that unfolded in the weeks afterward.
    I held the family reputation of the difficult child, the daughter who most tried my parents’ patience. Willful and reckless, I created havoc in our household. I was the one who poured sand into the motor of Ali’s new Mercedes; I pinched money out of my father’s wallet; I buried Ali’s gold coin collection in the backyard; I released green snakes and ugly lizards from jars into the family pool as Ali lay sleeping on his float.
    Sara was the perfect daughter, with her quiet obedience, and had earned perfect scores on her schoolwork. Even though I loved her madly, I thought Sara weak. But she surprised us all during the weeks prior to her wedding. Apparently she carried a hidden strength for bravery, for she called our father’s office on a daily basis and left messages for him that she was not going to marry. She even called the office of the man she was scheduled to marry and left a hard message with his Indian secretary that she thought he was an old, disgusting man, and that he should marry women, not girls. The Indian secretary obviously thought better of giving such a message to his employer, for seas did not part and mountains failed to erupt. Determined, Sara called back and asked to speak to the man himself! He was not in his office. Sara was informed that he would be in Paris for a few weeks. Father, wearying of Sara’s behavior, had our telephones disconnected.
    Sara was confined to her room.
    My sister’s reality loomed ahead. The day of the wedding arrived. The weeks of fretful mourning had done nothing to diminish Sara’s beauty. If anything, she appeared more beautiful, almost translucent, a heavenly creature not made for this world. Because of weight loss, her dark eyes dominated her face, and her features seemed chiseled. There was no end to Sara’s eyes, and I could see into her soul through her enormous black pupils. I saw fear there.
    Our older sisters, various female cousins, and aunties arrived early on the morning of the wedding to prepare the bride for the groom. My unwanted presence escaped the attention of the women, for I sat like a stone in the comer of the large dressing room that had been converted into a preparation room for the