Golden Bird

“Good evening, Father.”

Mohammed nodded, ignoring the odor of hashish in the room. “I am concerned for you, my son,” he said in Arabic. “I know your heart is heavy, but you must not let the loss of a foreign concubine deter you from your responsibilities. You are a prince, someday you will be a king, and you have a duty to your country.”

“Yes Father, I know my duties.” Rashid answered bitterly. It was those duties and responsibilities that had lost him his beautiful golden bird. He should have followed her, gone after her. He could have made her understand, in time. He knew she had loved him—she could again. But his duties kept him here. He met his father’s gaze, “I love her, Father.” his voice a tortured whisper.

Mohammed studied his son. Here was a different Rashid; the playboy son, who callously cast aside some of the most desired women in the world, was gone. This disturbed Mohammed. It would not go well for his son to continue pining away for this American woman. She was a nobody, and nothing could be gained by a union with her. It was good that she was gone. Now his son could seriously begin looking for a proper Islamic wife. Laila had been right. He should have insisted Rashid marry Fatima as soon as the girl turned eighteen, but now it was too late—the golden one had spoiled him for her, and perhaps for any other. Rashid must bed another woman, and soon, to break the spell of the foreigner. Mohammed knew the dangers of that route, for he had loved a foreigner.

Rashid’s own mother had been English, and Mohammed had loved her—so much that he had disregarded the warnings of his own father against marrying her. He had thought their love would solve all problems. But she had withered here in the heat and the strangeness of it all. She had longed for her cold English countryside, fearing the searing expanse of the desert. Rashid’s birth had weakened her further, and she had died, in a land far away from her own. Although Rashid’s American was not as delicate as his own Harriet, Mohammed feared their differing cultures would pose insurmountable problems, politically as well as personally, if they should marry.

Yes, thought Mohammed, his son needed to bed another woman. He said, “She is gone, my son. You must forget. It is time you find a woman of our own kind to make the future queen, and have many sons to carry on your dreams for our country.”