Desperate to bring her doubts and fears to some conclusion, Amira pre- pared herself as carefully as she had for her wedding, removing every trace of hair from her body, scenting herself with L’Air du Temps. She put on her most provocative French lingerie, and when she heard Ali stirring in his study, she presented herself to him.

“Well, well, what have we here?” He smiled but did not stop pouring his favorite single malt scotch.

Was he teasing her? she wondered.

She walked past him, around his chair, her movements becoming more provocative.

He ignored her. He had no interest in what she offered after she had abased herself like a common courtesan. And the Badir pride flared. “As always, your words have been an enlightenment to your poor servant, my husband,” she said with sarcastic formality. “But I’ve interrupted your refreshment too long.”

As she turned to walk away, he was suddenly on her like a madman, knocking her to the floor, ripping away the silk, taking her—raping her, really, for now she wanted no part of him. “Is that it? Is that what you want, sow?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with anger. And when he was finished, he pulled his robe around him and left her, as if she were a common whore.

And suddenly, it came to her. Just like Omar, he must have someone he loved more than her. Someone he loved instead of her. He hates me, she thought. He must. That’s why he hates being with me. He wants to be with her.

“Is this what happened to you, Mama?” she said aloud. “Is this how you felt?” Would she become like Jihan? Had it happened—so soon? Already? Amira gathered up the shreds of her little silken fantasy and went to bed.

O

The morning light softened the brutality of the night before, made it seem like a bad dream. Like a good Muslim wife, Amira found a way to blame herself: throwing herself at Ali that way when he clearly wasn’t in the mood, why wouldn’t he be repelled, angry?

The idea that he might have someone else was only an irritating little splinter under the skin now, not the gashing certainty it had seemed in the night. Perhaps he had seen someone while she was pregnant. Men had been known to do that; they had their needs.

But now Amira had given him a son, his first, and no other woman could ever do anything that important for him. Perhaps something was wrong between them sexually, but surely that could work out with time. Even if it didn’t, the world would not end. Her life would still be far better than that of most wives, certainly better than Jihan’s was (ridiculous to have imagined that she was turning into her mother, like one of those movie tricks where a flower blooms and dies in half a minute).