There was nothing she could do. Her idea had failed terribly. Things were worse here than in al-Remal. That night, for the first time, the sea air and the sound of the waves did not lull her quickly to sleep. She paced in her room, won- dering what was going to happen to her.

If there were no more love, no more children, would Ali divorce her? She almost hoped for it. She was still young, still had time to make a good match. But what would happen to Karim? Besides, Ali wouldn’t divorce her—he had said so more than once, not out of love, but out of vindictiveness, when they were arguing. She would be relegated to some back room of the palace to wither while he fathered children on new wives.

She looked at Karim, asleep in his crib. In a few years, he would go off to the men’s quarters; then he would be grown. If she were lucky, he might have lunch with her once or twice a week.

She tried to tell herself that it was all God’s will, but the words didn’t help. What did it matter whose will it was? If a shooting star fell from the sky and crushed her bones, that would clearly be God’s will, but would it hurt any less? If only there were someone to talk to. Philippe. Or Malik. She thought of the Azonia. It would be back from Marseilles in another day or two. What if she took Karim and her passport, climbed aboard, bribed the purser? That was madness. Even if they gave her passage, Ali would be waiting at the dock in France.

She curled up on the bed. Mama, where are you, she whimpered. Stop it. Jihan was in paradise. Wasn’t she? Was Laila there, too? What made her think of Laila? She got up and went through the house to the cabinet where Ali kept his liquor. Without looking at the label, she opened the first bottle and took a swallow. It was like drinking fire. She gagged, held it down, took another gulp. Maybe now she could sleep. Ali slept like the dead. The sleep of the righteous? She climbed the stairs. They seemed to be swaying. When she lay down, the room whirled. She went to the bathroom and vomited, then, exhausted, crawled back into bed, her hand reaching out in the darkness to touch her sleeping child.

O

The moon was high and bright, flooding the room, hurting her eyes. Where was she? Oh yes: Alexandria. What time was it? No idea. Her head hurt. Something had wakened her. Karim? No. Sleeping peacefully. Voices outside. Ali. Who was he talking to? A servant? He sounded angry.

She slipped from the bed and out onto the balcony. In the moonlight below, by the pool, Ali in his swimming trunks was facing a young man whose clothes testified to poverty.