She went to the side chamber where Karim slept when Ali made his con- jugal visits. Incredibly, that was just what the child was doing—sleeping. Had he been awake earlier? Other times? What had he heard? What would he remember when he was older, whether he knew that he remembered it or not? She touched his brow, and he murmured in his sleep. It was not just a mother’s prejudice, she thought: he was beautiful. He would grow up to be a hand- some young man. Suddenly a thought came to her that she had never had, and it made her nearly sick with fear. Her husband’s predilections, the way he treated her: if she was gone, what might he do with Karim someday? No, surely not— not even Ali.

Oh, God, I’ve got to get us out of here. But how? There was no way. There must be a way. She couldn’t think of it tonight. She was too tired, too confused. Sleep. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would find a way. It was a promise she had made to herself every night since Alexandria. Hating the smell and feel of her bed, she fell exhausted on it. Everything was quiet. Maybe for once the liquor had won out over the black pills. She turned out the light and closed her eyes.

It was al-Masagin again, the crowd in the square, the figure tied to the stake. But the figure wasn’t Laila, it was the young man in the night at Alexandria. His eyes turned to Amira. Then, somehow, Ali was dragging Laila’s body down a beach, blood trailing. Amira ran behind, begging him to stop. The blindfold fell from Laila’s face. It wasn’t Laila. It was Amira. The Amira who was watching tried to touch the dead Amira but couldn’t. It was as if her arms had heavy weights on them. She looked down and saw two snarling black dogs clamping her wrists in their fangs.

Someone was tugging at her, there in the dark. Oh, God, it was Ali. She could smell the liquor.

“Ali, what are you doing?” “Teaching you a lesson.”

“Please, Ali!” She tried to push him away, but something held her hands.

Was she still dreaming? Oh, God, she was tied.

Ali switched on the light. The pupils of his eyes were mad pinpoints; the pills had won.

“Now, bitch,” he said. “Now.” He showed her a quirtlike whip, the kind camel drivers used.

“No, Ali!”

“Turn over unless you want it in the face.” “What have I done, Ali?”

The whip cut across her breasts. Amira cried out at the fiery pain and rolled onto her stomach.

“You’re a sow. Yet, you look down on me. I can read your devil’s eyes. You dare to look down on me. Your husband. A royal prince. Respect. I’ll teach you respect.”

Each sentence ended with a lash of the whip to her back, her legs, her buttocks. There was no escaping it. She screamed. Surely someone would come—a servant, anyone. No one did.