Princess (28 page)

I last saw Widad at the London airport, clinging fiercely to her precious child. After scheduled medical appointments in London for her daughter, Widad was willing to risk the bombs of Lebanese enemies over the hypocrisy and inconceivable evil of those of my land, the Saudis.

The children and I stayed overnight in London. We crossed the Channel in a ferry and arrived in France the following day. From there we went by train to Zurich. I left the children in a hotel for a few hours while I emptied my son’s Swiss bank account. With a draft for more than six million dollars in hand, I felt secure.

I hired a driver with a car to take us to Geneva; from there we flew back to London and then on to the Channel Islands. There, I deposited the money in an account in my name and kept the cash from the safe in Riyadh for our expenses. We then flew to Rome, where I hired another driver to take us back to Paris.

In Paris, I hired a full-time housekeeper, a driver, and a bodyguard. Then, under an assumed name, I rented a villa on the outskirts of Paris. After such a confusing trail, I felt secure that Kareem would never find us.

A month later, I left the children in the care of the housekeeper while I flew to Frankfurt. There, I entered a bank and said that I was from Dubai and wanted to make a large deposit. Escorted into the bank manager’s office and given preferential treatment, I removed large sums of money from my bag and laid the cash upon the manager’s desk.

While he stared in shock at the money, I said that I needed to make a telephone call to my husband, who was away on business in Saudi Arabia. I was, of course, more than willing to pay for the call and laid five hundred dollars in his hand. The manager quickly got to his feet and practically clicked his heels together as he told me to take as much time as I needed. He closed the door and said he would be three offices down the hallway if I needed him.

I telephoned Sara. I knew her baby had been born by now, and she would more than likely be at home. I breathed a sigh of relief when one of the servants answered and said yes, the mistress was at home.

Sara screamed in relief when she heard my voice. I quickly asked her if her telephone lines were tapped and she said she was not certain. In a rush of words she added that Kareem was out of his mind with worry. He had traced me from Dubai to London, but had lost all evidence of us from that point. He told the family what had happened and was truly filled with deep regret. He wanted nothing more than for me and the children to come home. Kareem had said we must talk.

I asked Sara to give my husband a brief message. I wanted him to know that I found him despicable; he would never see us again. Furthermore, I had made arrangements for citizenship for the children and me in another country. Once I was fully protected in a new land, I would advise my sisters of my new life, but Kareem must never know where I was. And, as an added worry for Kareem, I told Sara to let him know that Abdullah, his son, no longer wanted contact with his father.

With that, I left the subject of Kareem behind. With delight, I learned that Sara had a new baby son and that the rest of my family was in good health. She said Father and Ali were furious and insisted I return to Riyadh and adhere to Kareem’s every wish, as was my duty. I had expected nothing more from those two of my very blood.

Sara tried to soothe me and asked if it would not be better to accept a new wife rather than to live my life as a refugee. I asked her if she would consider such an arrangement with Asad. Her silence was my answer.

After the call was made, I shoved my money back into my bag and slipped out of the bank without further notice from the eager manager. I felt a twinge of regret for my trickery, yet I knew I could not risk a call from a pay phone, for an operator might well announce the country calling to hidden tape machines linked to Kareem.

In deep contemplation of Sara’s words, I felt a smile grow across my face. My plan was working. But I thought it best to let Kareem suffer additional agony. He would need some time to recognize that I would never accept the multiple-wife existence, no matter the ultimate price.

Actually, the children knew nothing of the drama in our lives. I had told them a convincing tale of their father’s business taking him to the Orient for many months. Instead of remaining in Riyadh to suffer boredom, he had thought we would enjoy a pleasant time in the French countryside. Abdullah was curious as to why he received no calls from his father, but I kept him occupied with his lessons and numerous social activities; young minds adapt more easily than we could ever imagine. Our two daughters were still babies unable to consider dire circumstances. They had spent their lives traveling; the missing link was the absence of their father. I did my best to compensate. I consoled myself by considering the alternatives.

Life for my children in Riyadh with their parents in constant turmoil was unacceptable in my mind. Life without their mother would be unnatural. For if Kareem brought another woman into our lives, the murder of my husband was a real possibility. What good would I be to the children without my head, for it would surely be parted from my body after I took the life of their father! For a moment I considered the sharp blade of the executioner’s sword and shuddered at the thought that I might one day feel that coldness. I knew I was fortunate to be a royal, for I, like Ali so many years ago, could ease through difficult legal and ethical situations without the interference of the men of religion. Were I not of royal blood, the pounding of stones would end my life for such actions. But we royals keep our scandals inside our walls; no one outside the family would know of my defection. Only Kareem could call for my death, and no matter my actions, I knew with certainty that my husband did not have the stomach to call for my blood.

I called Sara once a month. During this lengthy absence from my family and country, my days and nights were restless. But I knew there was gain to be had; my determination and patience would alter Kareem’s plans of cluttering our lives with other wives.

Five months after my departure I agreed to speak with Kareem over the telephone. I flew to London to place the call. Our conversation convinced me that Kareem was desperate with desire to see me and the children. He would now enter the second stage of my carefully laid trap.

We made plans to meet in Venice the following weekend. My husband was stunned to see me accompanied by four hefty German bodyguards. I told Kareem I no longer trusted his word; he might have hired thugs to kidnap me and bundle me off to Riyadh to face the unjust way our legal system dealt with disobedient wives! His face began to redden. He swore, he blushed with shame; I thought perhaps he was angered by his inability to control his wife.

Our impasse ended with a compromise. I would return to Riyadh only if Kareem signed a legal document stating that so long as he and I were wed, he would not take another wife. If he were to break his word, I was to be given a divorce, custody of our children, and half of his fortune. In addition, I was to retain, under my control, the monies I had taken out of our son’s account in Switzerland. Kareem would replace Abdullah’s funds. In addition, he would deposit one million dollars in each of our daughters’ names in a Swiss bank account. I would keep, in my possession, our passports with updated papers stating we could travel without restrictions.

I told Kareem that after he signed the necessary papers, I would remain in Europe with the children for an additional month. He had been warned of my determination; perhaps his desire for me would fade after consideration. I was not interested in replaying the same song twice. Kareem winced at my words, delivered with a hardness he had seldom heard.

I accompanied Kareem to the airport. My husband was not a happy man. I walked away less content than I had anticipated after the biggest gamble of my life had produced such a stunning victory. I had found that there is little joy derived from forcing a man to do what is right.

One month later I called Kareem to hear his decision. He confessed that I was his strength; his life. He wanted his family back, with everything as it was before. I bluntly told him that surely he could not expect to sever our love with the cold knife of indifference and then expect that a seamless union would remain in our grasp. We had been among the most fortunate of couples with love, family, and unlimited wealth. He was the destroyer of all that, not I.

I returned to Riyadh. My husband was waiting, with trembling lips and a hesitant smile. Abdullah and my daughters went wild with joy at seeing their father. My pleasure slowly grew from the happiness of my children.

I found I was a stranger in my home, listless and unhappy. Too much had happened for me to go back to the Sultana of a year ago. I needed a real purpose, a challenge. I decided I would return to school; there were now colleges for women in my country. I would discover the normalcy of life and leave behind the mindless routines of a royal princess.

As far as Kareem was concerned, I could only wait for time to erase the bad memories of his behavior. I had undergone a transition in the fight to save my marriage from the alien presence of another woman. Kareem had been the supreme figure in my life until he weakened our union with talk of wedding another. A substantial part of our love was destroyed. Now he was simply the father of my children and little more.

Kareem and I set about to rebuild our nest and provide our children with the tranquility we so valued for our young. He said he keenly felt the loss of our love. He valiantly tried to redeem himself in my eyes. He said that if I continued to sit in judgment of his past behavior, we and the children might well lose the enjoyment of our future. I said little but knew it was true.

The trauma of our personal war was past, but the taste of peace was far from sweet. I reflected often on the emotional scars I had acquired in such a short lifetime; sadly, all my wounds had been inflicted by men. As a result, I could hold not even one member of the opposite sex in high esteem.

Chapter Twenty: The Great White Hope

Suddenly, it was August 1990. A glittering dinner party was in progress at our villa in Jeddah when we heard the horrifying news that two of our neighbors were locked in a death-defying struggle across the border in the tiny country of Kuwait. Kareem and I were entertaining twenty guests from our exclusive circle when the news was shouted out from the top of the stairwell by our son, Abdullah, who had been listening to the BBC (British Broadcasting Corporation) on his short-wave radio. After a long, dry silence, a disbelieving roar rose throughout the room.

Few Saudis, even those royals involved in the negotiations between Kuwait and Iraq, had really believed that Saddam Hussein would invade Kuwait. Kareem had been present at the conference that ended in a stalemate on that very day, August 1, 1990, in Jeddah. The crown prince of Kuwait, Sheik Saud Al-Abdullah Al-Salem Al-Sabah, had just returned to Kuwait with the hope that war could be averted.

When our son cried out that Iraqi troops were advancing on Kuwait City, the seriousness of the attack was evident. I wondered if the huge family of Al Sabahs would escape with their lives. As a mother, my thoughts were with the innocent children.

I watched Kareem’s face across the crowded room. Underneath his calm façade, he was furious. The Iraqis had gone against their word; as a result, the leaders of our government had played a role in minimizing the danger. His brown eyes had a glow that caused a shiver to run down my spine. I knew that he, along with other Al Sa’uds present, would soon leave for a hastily called family conference.

I had heard Kareem speak often of the barbarity of the Baath regime in Iraq. He had said many times that the Iraqis were by nature aggressive and prone to violence in their private lives. He thought that might explain their national acquiescence to a brutal police state.

I myself knew little of the true politics of the area, for Saudi news is heavily censored and our men reveal little of their political activities to their wives. But Kareem’s opinion was justified by a story I had heard from an Iraqi. Several years ago, while dining out in London, Kareem, Asad, Sara, and I had listened in complete fascination as a casual Iraqi acquaintance bragged of killing his father over a misunderstanding about money.

The son had sent the father his earnings from an investment in Paris. The widowed father had become enamored with a village woman and had spent the son’s earnings on the purchase of expensive gifts for his mistress. When the son returned to Iraq to visit, he discovered that his money had been squandered. He knew what he had to do, which was to shoot his father to death.

With a loud shout, Kareem had protested the unbelievable act. The Iraqi was surprised at my husband’s bewilderment and disbelief, and responded: “But he had spent my money! It was mine!” As far as the man was concerned, he had had a reasonable cause to take the life of his father.

His act was so unthinkable and repulsive to Kareem that, departing from his usual mild manner, he jumped toward the man and told him to leave our table. The Iraqi left in a rush. Kareem muttered that such attitudes were not uncommon in Iraq, but social acceptance of murdering one’s father found great doubt in his mind.

Kareem, like all Saudi men, revered his father and showed him much respect. He would not think of raising his voice or even presenting his back to his father. I had seen Kareem leave a room backward on numerous occasions.

Like most Arabs, I am sorry to acknowledge, I am a heavy smoker, yet I was never allowed to smoke in front of Kareem’s father.