Am I angry at him for not listening to me?
Or angry at myself for being happy he didn’t?
Maybe it’s something in the coffee, but I don’t seem able to think straight in Najriad.
Tomorrow, I go back to drinking tea.
The next morning, respectfully covered in a simple blue-green ankle-length dress and matching scarf, Zhang sat across from Hadia in a small café after their tour of Nilon City. Najriad was modern in some ways and strictly traditional in others. Women of all ages were either fully covered by abayas or dressed in a more Westernized – though still modest –style, favoring high necklines, long sleeves and long hems. Zhang had asked Hadia for guidance in this matter. She didn’t want her first public appearance to be an offensive one. Hadia’s tour had started with a perusal of the older woman’s closet.
Although Hadia was in her seventies, one wouldn’t have guessed that by how she kept up to date with international fashion designers. She joked that once upon a time she’d had a closet for the street and a closet for her husband, but now she simply dressed for herself. That didn’t mean she didn’t show her respect for the old ways. She still kept mostly covered in public and wore a scarf over her hair.
When Zhang had chosen her clothing based on Hadia’s suggestions, Hadia had commented, “When I read about your very independent life, I wasn’t sure if I could see you as the queen of Najriad, but you have impressed me.
Zhang had shrugged and replied, “I walk the line between two cultures already – what is a third?”
In the café, Hadia ordered coffee and Zhang ordered sanity, a British blend of it. Hadia referenced the guards who stood nearby and asked, “Does it bother you to not be able to go out alone?”
Zhang shook her head. “I lost that privilege years ago when I had my first real taste of success. If you have something, there will always be those who wish to take it from you. I usually travel with my own security.”
Hadia looked around the busy streets. “And where are these men today?”
For a woman who spent most of her days in a palace, she was sharp about the ways of the world. “They’re close,” Zhang admitted. She didn’t doubt for a moment that had she called out in distress, one of her men would have materialized from the surrounding crowd.
Hadia nodded in approval. “So, what did you think of Nilon?”
“It’s beautiful, and the focus that Rachid has placed on higher education is apparent.”
“His goal is to strengthen math and science skills at all levels so that when he moves his headquarters here, our people will not only work in the city – they will invent, create and redesign our economy through innovation.”
“An admirable goal.”
And one much like my own.
Both gracefully thanked the young woman who served their drinks. The girl recognized the king’s mother and bowed repeatedly. She was dressed in a modest, embroidered shirt and loose pants. Uncovered, her long black hair was tied neatly at her neck. Earlier, Hadia had explained that the rules for the youth were changing – something she was both happy and concerned about. However, clothing choice was no longer the topic Hadia was interested in. She said, “My grandson takes his responsibility very seriously, but he struggles with himself. Did he tell you that his mother passed away in childbirth?”
Zhang shook her head and sipped at her black tea. The topic reminded her of how little she knew about the man she would marry in a few days.
Hadia sipped her coffee, nodded with approval to the server who retreated when she did and said, “It shaped who Rachid is, but he won’t speak of it. His mother was quite controversial. She was English and no one accepted her.” Hadia smiled as she remembered the woman. “My son loved her, though. For a while, I feared that he would leave us for her, but they married and she joined him here.”
Zhang sat forward in her seat. “That couldn’t have been easy for her.”
“I imagine it wasn’t. She was rigid in some of her beliefs and that made it more difficult for both of them. She loved Amir, though, and that was enough for me to accept her. The people weren’t as easy to win over. She might have succeeded, but she got pregnant within their first year of marriage and was sickly through most of the pregnancy. She died before the people knew her – or she them.”
“That’s so sad.”
Hadia put her coffee down and looked up, revealing sadness in her eyes. “It was, in more than one way. My son, Amir, took her death hard. He was angry with himself, with the people who didn’t mourn her – even turned against his faith for a time. Amir couldn’t bear to be with Rachid in the beginning. He said it was too painful. Sometimes I think that Rachid has spent his whole life paying the price for a tragedy that was not his fault.”
“Is that why Rachid was sent away to school?” Zhang’s heart broke for the little boy who’d lost everything and for the man who somehow blamed himself.
Shrugging one shoulder slightly, Hadia said, “Amir said it was because he wanted to bring technology to Najriad. His reasoning was sound, but I never agreed with the decision. Rachid was sent away at only eight years old, too young to be on his own. He should have at least brought him home each summer, but he didn’t. He remarried, and perhaps it was easier for all to have Rachid out of the picture. I love my son, but Amir should have called Rachid home when Ghalil was born. Raising one son here and sending one son away has kept them strangers to each other. Strangers make easy adversaries. Ghalil has never had to compete for his father’s love, and everyone believed that he would become king one day.”
“Even though Rachid was the eldest?”
“In Najriad, a ruling sheikh is chosen by his family. Lineage is important, but Amir could pass his title on to a brother or a cousin as easily as he could to his children.”
“Did Rachid consider turning the title down?”
“I’m sure he did. The people don’t know or trust him. I’ve seen him struggle to express himself in Arabic. It can’t be easy for him to try to prove himself worthy.”