sultana was waiting by her husband’s black Mercedes. A white Learjet waited on the tarmac, door open and engines running. Princes typically owned several jets—Sultana’s husband owned six. The pilot, an American with whom Miriam had flown before, walked out to greet them, grinning wide. Then they were aboard and the door shut and Samir was gone.
Ten minutes later they were airborne.
Less than an hour later they landed at Jidda’s international airport on the coast of the Red Sea. Separated from the pilot, they had talked freely and completed the paperwork that gave Salman’s permission for Miriam to travel alone and out of the country. Sultana’s confidence fed Miriam’s, which grew with each step.
The main terminal teemed with people in white and black clothing, more men in white than women in black. The ticket counters for Saudi Arabian Airlines stood to Miriam’s right. She waited with Sultana in this sea of wandering men, cloaked in her abaaya, and a wave of doubt swept over her.
“What if Hillary doesn’t remember me?” she asked. “Just because she taught Middle Eastern studies doesn’t mean she’ll be friendly—”
“Stop it before you talk your way out of this. There’s a plane leaving in forty minutes. If you hurry, you can catch it.”
Miriam looked around again. Sultana’s hand rested on her arm.
“Go with God. And tell them in America.”
“Tell them what?”
Sultana looked out the window at a rolling jet. “That only a few are like that pig Hatam, drowning his wife.” Her voice shook. “That we despise beasts like Omar.”
Sultana’s crusade.
“What if my father has already discovered me missing—”
“If you don’t go right now, I’m going to start screaming. Do you want that? Every policeman in the terminal will come running.”
Miriam forced an anemic grin. “Okay, I’m going.”
“Take care of yourself.”
Miriam took uncertain steps toward the counter, the small bag in her right hand and the vanity case in her left. She stood in line and yet again was grateful for the veil.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, one ticket to Riyadh, please.”
The man eyed her curiously. “Papers.”
She handed over the forged documents, which explained the emergency nature of her trip, expressly authorized by Salman bin Fahd. A cousin had taken ill in Paris, and there was no male companion available for Miriam. Whatever the man behind the counter thought, he was in no position to question the son of the king.
Miriam declared no luggage, took her ticket, waited to board, then entered the plane. An hour later the plane landed in Riyadh, and Miriam thought again about aborting. She could still call Samir to pick her up, hurry back to the villa, and replace the cash. Or she could catch another flight back to Jidda and return with Sultana.
And then what?
Then she would be forced to marry Omar.
Her feet carried her out to the main terminal. The ticket counters ran along the far wall, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if they were the gates to heaven or to hell. She walked toward them. You’ve gone too far to go back. If they refuse to sell you a ticket to Paris, you will fly back to Jidda.
But they didn’t refuse to sell her a ticket.
Once again she climbed on board, muscles strung taut like zither wires. The large DC-10 lifted off and slowly turned to the northwest. Every time a steward walked down the cabin, she half expected him to approach her with the news: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but your foolish plan to run from your marriage to Omar has been found out. We are under orders to turn the plane around and return you to Riyadh, where a group of a hundred mutawa are waiting at the airport to beat you.”
But again her fears failed to materialize. The plane landed. The passengers deplaned.
Miriam walked cautiously down the Jetway, eyes open for armed authorities. She paused ten feet from the terminal entrance, struggling to still her breathing. A young man stepped around her, staring. In her fear, she’d almost forgotten that she was wearing the abaaya.
She reached up, pulled off her veil, stuffed it up her sleeve, and forced herself into the terminal.
Hundreds of colorfully dressed people strutted or milled about, and she was sure that most of them were looking in her direction.
Miriam scanned the crowd quickly. No religious police! Or were they hiding to avoid a scene? She located a bathroom sign up the hall and struck out for it with a new urgency, avoiding any eye contact with curious onlookers.
Is that Darth Vader, Mommy?
She had to shed this black cloak. A wedge of black caught her attention and she glanced up to see another woman dressed in an abaaya, fifty meters ahead. She still wore her veil and trailed her husband by several meters.
The sight emboldened her. Miriam barged into the bathroom and entered the handicapped stall. She threw off her abaaya, set the suitcase on the toilet, unlocked the latch, and flipped it open. One of the hundred- dollar stacks fell to the floor in her haste to pull out her jeans. She stared at it, horrified.
The restroom door opened and someone entered. Miriam bent for the money, shoved it back under her clothes, and quietly closed the case. But she was afraid to engage the latch for the noise it would make.
No one was going to bust in here and grab her because they’d heard two latches clicking closed. What was she thinking?
The door opened and closed again. She was alone again.
She dressed as quickly as her trembling hands would allow. She’d thought to discard her abaaya in the waste bin by the sinks, but now she wondered if it might be better to flush it down the toilet.
Of all the ideas . . . ! The toilet would only flood!
Miriam scooped up the garment, grabbed her bags, and left the stall. She crossed to a large waste bin, set her cases down, and summarily shoved her abaaya through the opening. She faced the mirror.
Her image stared back, face ashen, arms and neck bare. What was she doing?
She lifted her hand to the collar of her canary blouse. It froze there. She was practically naked! What did she think she was doing? She couldn’t walk out there like this, baring her skin to the world! She should at least keep the abaaya as a backup.
She reached into the trash, closed her hand around the robe, and pulled it out. Now she stood facing the mirror with a wadded black garment in her left hand, looking like a fool.
Miriam grunted and pushed the cloak back into the bin. She covered her face with her hands. Calm down, Miriam!
The door opened. Her eyes sprang open. Light seeped through her fingers, but she did not remove her hands.
A woman walked past her and then stopped. “You okay?” she asked in French.
Miriam lowered her arms. “Yes,” she said. “Oui.”
The woman smiled and stepped into a stall.
Miriam turned back to the mirror. That was it. Just “You okay?” and “Yes.” The woman was only concerned, not suspicious. And Miriam had responded. All was well. You okay? Yes!
Yes, yes! I am okay.
It was then, standing in front of the mirror, that Miriam realized her plan was going to work. She was going to escape Omar.
Miriam picked up her two bags and walked out. People filled the busy terminal, but no one was focused on her. No one at all.
Miriam cleared immigration in ten minutes and immediately purchased a ticket to Chicago. Her destination was San Francisco, but as planned, she bought her tickets with cash and in single legs to slow any pursuit.
She spent an hour walking the terminal, browsing the shops, feeling more alive than she could ever remember. She changed a few dollars for francs and bought a mug with Paris etched in gold. She wanted a memento of her first truly free day.
The transatlantic flight to Chicago on United Airlines was a joy. She flew first class, because the royal family always flew first class, and an escapee deserved nothing less. She watched an in-flight movie titled The Lord of the Rings, full of magic and strange creatures that made her laugh. A bit scary in parts, but magical. Several passengers kept looking her way, and she finally apologized for her outbursts, unable to hide her grin. She wanted to tell them more. That she was escaping from a terrible man named Omar, and they should be glad that she was sitting here laughing at trolls and goblins instead of marrying one. She wanted to say that, but she didn’t.
She wasn’t sure if it was the relief or the wine or the growing contentment, but she finally fell asleep.
A friend of Sultana’s who lived in Spain had modified Miriam’s student visa two years ago, insisting that it was good for four more years. For a few horrible minutes in the immigration line at O’Hare, Miriam began to have her doubts. But then she was smiling politely at an officer and walking through, stamped passport in hand.
She was in the United States. Wearing jeans and a canary blouse. Free to go where she liked. Carrying $500,000 in her bag. She nearly screamed out her thanks to God right then, fifty feet beyond the immigration line, but she settled for a subdued prayer of gratitude.
By now, the wheels would be turning in Saudi Arabia. Sultana would be sticking to her denials; Samir would be vowing ignorance and dying of worry. Dear Samir. Salman would be pacing in rage, and the sheik would be wringing his hands. And Omar . . .
Omar would be considering that perhaps women could do more than make babies and cook and please their masters.
A group of young men whom she recognized from the flight passed her. On the plane the four talking heads had laughed loudly and sworn regularly. Now she saw they wore baggy jeans that threatened to fall around their ankles. She’d never seen the like! The sight made her feel vulnerable and alone in this sea of humanity. She had been set free, yes, but into what kind of ocean?
Miriam purchased a ticket to San Francisco and spent two anxious hours waiting for the plane’s departure, vacillating between the thrill of her accomplishment and worry that she had escaped only to be eventually dragged back to Saudi Arabia. What if Omar had beaten the truth out of Sultana and was even now waiting for her in San Francisco?
No. Sultana’s husband would not allow Omar to touch his wife.
Her flight landed in San Francisco at three o’clock in the afternoon, and Omar wasn’t there. Then she truly was free, wasn’t she? Jidda, Riyadh, Paris, Chicago, and now San Francisco. She had really done it.
Miriam hailed a taxi at three thirty.
“Where to?” The driver looked Indian or Pakistani. She wondered if he was Muslim or Hindu.
“Do you know where Berkeley is?” she asked.
“University of California at Berkeley? Yes, of course.” His accent was British Indian and she loved it.
“There is a house on a street near the university. Could you take me there?”
“To where? Do you have the address?”
“No.”
“Then I can’t take you there, can I?”
“But you can take me to the university. I think I will remember from there, although last time I had a driver who knew where to take me.”
“But I’ve never been there, have I? So how can I take you where I’ve never been?”
He looked her over, smiled politely, then pulled into traffic. His name was Stan, he informed her, although she doubted it. He should be American if he wanted to be, however. She was doing the same. Stan drove her north on the 101 and then traversed the Oakland Bay Bridge—a bridge he clearly resented, judging by the “fool drivers” who hindered his progress.
She laughed at this, which got him laughing too, and by the time they exited University Avenue for a small university street she recognized, Stan was very friendly. Practically in love with her. She knew because his eyes said so. They were watching her and speaking in the same way Samir’s eyes spoke to her the few times she hadn’t worn her veil.
Ten minutes later they found Hillary’s house, only three blocks from University Avenue, as it turned out. Miriam paid Stan his fee and gave him an extra hundred dollars for his kindness. For affirming her.
Professor of Middle Eastern Studies Hillary Brackenshire was a tall, skinny woman with skin that looked three times her age and gray, wiry hair that she hardly bothered to brush. She reminded Miriam of a walking thistle. The professor had been fascinated by Miriam during Miriam’s summer months at Berkeley—a natural reaction, considering Hillary’s field of study and her infatuation with Islam.
Miriam hoped the woman would be glad to see her. If not, she would go to plan B, which was hardly more than starting out in a hotel. She set her cases down, glanced around nervously, and knocked on the door.
Within ten seconds the knob rattled, and then the door swung inward. Hillary stood there, dressed in a house robe despite it being only five in the afternoon, looking as much the wrinkled porcupine as Miriam remembered.
“Yes? May I help you?”
Miriam hesitated. “Do you remember me?” Obviously not. “Miriam. I studied at Berkeley two summers ago.”
Hillary’s eyes widened. “Miriam? The princess?”
Miriam smiled. “Yes, although I’m not sure that I’m a princess any longer.”
“Come in! Come in.” Hillary waved her in with a flapping hand. “My dear, it isn’t every day a princess comes to my door.” She saw the suitcases and glanced up at Miriam, then past her to the street. “Where’s your ride?”
“I came in a taxi.”
“Let me help you.”
“Thank you.”
Miriam entered and looked around at the rather humble setting. An ungainly papier-mâché bell sat on the mantel. Dried leaves glued together to form picture frames hung over a brown threadbare couch. The lampshades looked like they were made of pillowcases—the same yellow ones Miriam remembered from her last visit. Hillary, a self-proclaimed naturalist, did no better with her living room than she did with her hair, Miriam thought.
“What do you mean, you might not be a princess anymore?” Hillary asked, turning in the center of the room.
Miriam set her vanity case on the floor. “I mean that I’ve run from the House of Saud.”
Hillary blinked. “You’ve . . . you’ve run? You can’t run from the House of Saud. You are the House of Saud.”
Miriam laughed lightly. “Yes, I suppose I am. But actually”—she looked around, strangely intoxicated by Hillary’s mess—“actually, I’ve fled. Imagine that. I left Saudi Arabia and I’ve come to the United States. And I was wondering if you might help me for a few days.”
She wanted Hillary to hug her, delighted with her courage. Instead, the professor just stared, unbelieving.
“That’s impossible,” Hillary finally said.
“But I’ve done it!” Miriam felt her face broaden into a smile.
“No, I mean you can’t run from who you are. You shouldn’t have.”
It occurred to Miriam that Hillary really did not understand, professor of Middle Eastern studies or not. She should have been discouraged, but the joy of her success prevented it.
“May I stay with you for a day or two?”
“Well . . . sure. It’s a far cry from the Hilton, though. Last time you had the whole top floor, and now you want to stay with me?”
“Yes.”
“Why on earth—”
“Last time I was a princess. Now I’m just a woman.” She smoothed her yellow blouse. “See, a woman. I’ll be out of your way tomorrow. The next day at the latest.”
“Does the embassy know you’re here?”
“I told you, I’m running.”
“So you’re a fugitive?”
Hillary’s tone pushed Miriam down onto the sofa. “Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”
Hillary sputtered. “No. No, of course not. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. As long as you promise to tell me all about it.”
“I will.”
“Good. Now, a princess must have tea. I have a wonderful herbal blend. China Moon. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Be right back.” Hillary slid into the kitchen.
Miriam breathed deeply. She kicked her shoes off, lifted both arms to the ceiling. She hardly knew she was going to yelp before she did so—a full-blooded Arabian yelp with an ululating tongue.
From the kitchen, porcelain rattled and then crashed. Hillary had dropped the teacups. But Miriam didn’t care. She flung herself back into the soft sofa cushions, laughing.
Omar could steam all he liked. She was free from him.