Now and then, though, someone stepped forward to beg the king’s jus- tice. One old man quivering with awe announced that two of his goats had been killed by a truck and that, far from paying for the goats, the driver had demanded money for the damage to his vehicle. Two witnesses from the man’s far desert village supported his story.

The king ordered that the driver pay not only for the goats, but also for the cost of the three men’s travels to the majlis. The trio, assured of fame in their homeplace for the rest of their lives, departed thanking God and the monarch. Like smaller jewels among the official events, countless private parties flared and sparkled, relatives and friends visiting and bearing gifts back and forth until nearly dawn. It reminded Amira of the week after Ramadan, only more frenetic.

It was entirely possible to forget which party one was attending.

Everywhere, except at some of the embassies and in the most liberal private homes, standard segregation of the sexes applied. Even in her own house, what with the comings and goings of guests and the scurrying of servants, Amira never had a chance to exchange more than a few perfunctory and very public words with Philippe.

What little privacy there had been all but vanished when Ali’s sister, Zeinab, showed up with her luggage and her somewhat overwhelmed husband, com- plaining that the house to which they had been assigned was little better than a shepherd’s hut—impossible to remain there another minute.

It was Ali who finally gave Amira her chance. “Our friend isn’t feeling well,’’ he told her on the fourth morning of the festival. “He says he’s just tired, but I’m not sure he’s in the best of health. At any rate, he plans to stay in and rest today.’’

“I’ll tell the servants.”

“Good. But we can’t leave a guest alone. I’d like for you to stay and keep him company—unless you can’t resist another embassy meal and speeches.” “To tell the truth, I’m a little worn out myself.” It was a fact; she still hadn’t fully regained her strength from the ordeal in the hospital. “But mightn’t there be talk? I mean, won’t there be anyone else here, besides the servants?”

“I don’t know. I can’t keep up with Zeinab—enough trouble figuring out my own schedule. But there’s nothing to worry about. It’s an unusual situation, after all, and you have my permission. Besides, as you said, the servants will be here.”

“Well …” She didn’t want to seem eager. “I must go. Everything will be fine.”

“As you command,” said Amira, like the good Muslim wife she had once tried so hard to be.