“Why Istanbul?” Ali asked when they were airborne in the king’s private jet, on loan to the newlyweds for the duration of their honeymoon.

“Because … because someone very dear to me went there for her honeymoon. She said it was beautiful—and exciting.”

Ali smiled indulgently, as he had done when Amira first expressed a wish to see the place Laila had enjoyed so much. “Well,” he said, “to someone who hasn’t seen much of the world, I suppose Istanbul can be impressive. But you, my dear, you can expect to see much more, that I can promise.”

Amira could scarcely imagine “much more.” Here she was, flying for the first time, in a luxurious craft fitted out with a stately seating area, an opulent bedroom and marble bath, and a well-appointed dining room, complete with bone china, crystal goblets, and gold eating utensils. And though Ali had insisted on taking the controls himself during the Boeing 727’s takeoff, they had, at their service, the king’s most experienced pilot and a flight crew of five. Being served orange juice in crystal goblets at forty thousand feet made Amira feel as if she were a fairy-tale princess, an impression that lingered long after they landed at the city on the Bosporus. A limousine picked them up at the airport, whisking them quickly to the Hilton, Istanbul’s premier hotel, where Ali had booked a penthouse suite.

Amira had never stayed in a hotel before. She thought this one even grander than al-Remal’s royal palace, with its lushly landscaped grounds, crystal-clear pools, and inviting tennis courts. And the people who crowded the lobby—Amira could not take her eyes off them—the fair European men, so different from what she was used to, and the beautiful women, unveiled, wearing their fashionable clothes for all to see.

As the manager personally escorted them to their quarters, he proudly informed the honeymooners that “the famous American actors Kirk Douglas and Anthony Quinn’’ had recently stayed there.

Amira was enchanted. American film stars, no less! In this very place. As soon as she and Ali were alone, she dashed from room to room, throwing open the curtains and exclaiming over the dazzling cityscape below.

“Don’t be such a bumpkin,’’ Ali said, but with a tender smile that took the sting from his words. “As it is, most Europeans think all Gulf Arabs live in tents and know nothing of indoor plumbing.”

“Of course,” she said, stopping in her tracks, “of course, you’re right.” Yet far from upsetting Amira, Ali’s words made her feel important, as if she had a purpose outside her own home: to represent her country in a small way, to bring honor to the royal house of al-Remal. She began to walk around the room, slowly and with a measured pace, imitating the elegant European women she had seen in the lobby.