“I have been to New York,” Salah said. “The city is crawling with Jews. They control everything. The government, the banks.”
Baydr looked at his brother-in-law. Salah was a heavy-set, pedantic young man whose father had made a fortune as a moneylender and now owned one of the major banks in Beirut. “Then you deal with Jewish banks?” he asked.
An expression of horror crossed Salah’s face. “Of course not,” he said stiffly. “We deal only with the biggest banks, the Bank of America, First National and Chase.”
“They’re not Jewish?” Baydr asked. Out of the corner of his eye he caught his father’s smile. Samir had already gotten the point.
“No,” Salah answered.
“Then the Jews do not control everything in America,” Baydr said. “Do they?”
“Fortunately,” Salah said. “Not that they wouldn’t if they had the opportunity.”
“But America is pro-Israel,” Samir said.
Baydr nodded. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“You have to try to understand the American mentality. They have sympathy for the underdog. And Israel has very successfully played upon that in their propaganda. First against the British, now against us.”
“How can we change that?”
“Very simply,” Baydr said. “Leave Israel alone. It is only a tiny strip of land in our midst, no bigger than a flea on an elephant’s back. What harm can they do us?”
“They will not remain a flea,” Salah said. “Refugees from all over Europe are coming in by the thousands. The scum of Europe. They will not be content with what they have. The Jew always wants it all.”
“We do not know that yet,” Baydr said. “Perhaps if we welcomed them as brothers and worked with them to develop our lands, rather than opposing them, we would find out differently. A long time ago it was said that a mighty sword can fell an oak tree with one blow but cannot cut a silken scarf floating in the air.”
“I’m afraid it is too late for that,” Salah said. “The cries of our brothers living under their domination are ringing in our ears.”
Baydr shrugged. “America does not know that. All they know is that a tiny nation of a million people is living in the midst of an enemy world which surrounds and outnumbers them one hundred to one.”
His father nodded solemnly. “There is much thinking to be done. It is a very complex problem.”
“It is not complex,” Salah said heavily. “Mark my words, in time you will all see what I tell you is true. Then, we will unite to destroy them.”
Samir looked at his other son-in-law. “What is your opinion, Omar?”
The young doctor cleared his throat with embarrassment. He was inordinately shy. “I am not political,” he said. “So I really do not think of these matters. In the foreign universities of England and France where I studied, there were many professors who were Jews. They were good doctors and good teachers.”
“I also,” Samir said. He looked at Baydr. “I trust you have made no plans for tomorrow.”
“I am home,” Baydr said. “What plans do I need to make?”
“Good,” Samir said. “Because tomorrow we are to have dinner with his excellency, the Prince Feiyad. He wishes to celebrate your eighteenth birthday.”
Baydr was puzzled. His birthday had passed some months before. “Is his excellency here?”
“No,” Samir said. “He is in Alayh, enjoying a holiday from his family and duties. We are invited to join him tomorrow.”
Baydr knew better than to ask the reason. His father would tell him in his own good time. “It will be my pleasure, Father,” he said.
“Good,” his father smiled. “Now shall we rejoin your mother and sisters? I know they are waiting eagerly to hear more of your stories about America.”
CHAPTER 7
Alayh was a tiny village in the mountains thirty miles from Beirut. There was no industry, no trade, no farming. It had only one reason to justify its existence. Pleasure. Both sides of the main street that ran through the center of the village were lined with restaurants and cafes which featured Oriental dancers and singers from all over the Middle East. Western tourists were discouraged and seldom if ever seen here. The clientele were the rich sheiks, the princes and businessmen, who came here to escape the rigid moralities and boredom of their own world.
Here they could indulge in all the things that were not acceptable at home. They could drink the liquor and taste the foods and delights that strict Muslim law forbade them. And perhaps most important was the fact that here they were anonymous. No matter how well one man knew the other, he did not recognize him or speak to him unless invited to do so.
It was after ten o’clock the next evening that Samir’s limousine rolled to a stop in front of the largest cafe on the street. In keeping with his importance, Prince Feiyad had taken over the entire establishment for the night. It would not be proper for him to mix with the casual visitor. He was absolute monarch of a thousand-square-mile piece of land bordering on four countries, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Syria and Jordan. That his land infringed somewhat into each of these countries did not matter because it served a useful purpose. It was to his country that each could come with impunity and in safety to work out disagreements and problems between them. Baydr’s grandmother was the sister of Prince Feiyad’s father and as cousins to the royal family the Al Fays were the second most important family.
It was to Baydr’s father that the Prince had given the rights to all public utilities. The electric and telephone companies were owned by Samir and in return the family had built schools and hospitals where free care was provided for all who sought it. They had been rich to begin with, but with the grants they had grown even richer almost without effort.
It was a great disappointment to the whole family that the Prince had no male heirs to whom he could pass the throne. He had married a number of times and always performed his duties. And as each wife failed to produce the required heir, he had divorced her. Now, sixty years old, he had long ago decided that if it was the will of Allah that he should have no direct heir, he would see to it that his cousin would provide one for him.
It was for this reason that eighteen years earlier, Samir had made his pilgrimage to Mecca. His prayers had been answered with the birth of Baydr. But, despite his promise, Feiyad had still not designated the boy as his heir. Instead, he had insisted that Baydr be educated in Western ways and live and learn about the Western world. In many ways, Samir had been pleased. His son would become a doctor as he had been and together they would work, side by side.
But the Prince had other ideas. There were others who could become doctors. Baydr had to be educated in more important matters—trade, investment. It was only through increased sophistication in commerce that the country, meaning himself and his family, would continue to grow in wealth and stature. He had the basic Arab distrust of the Western people he did business with: he felt they regarded him as somehow inferior, almost childlike in his lack of knowledge. And so it was that he decided that Baydr would not go to England to follow in his father’s footsteps, but to America, where business was the admired and respected profession.
Samir looked proudly at his son as he stepped from the limousine. Dressed in traditional Arab clothing, the ghutra falling down his neck, the robes clinging to his tall lean frame, he was a handsome figure. The strong chin, prominent nose and blue-black eyes set deeply into high-boned, olive cheeks gave promise of the strength and character of the young man. The Prince would be pleased. Perhaps, now, he would designate Baydr as his heir.
Mentally, he begged Allah’s forgiveness for his earthly hopes and vanities. It was enough of a miracle that he had brought a son to him in the desert. With that he should be content. Allah’s will be done.
He gestured to Baydr, who followed him up the steps into the cafe. The Prince’s major-domo was at the door with two armed guards. He recognized Samir. He bowed in the traditional greeting. “As-salaam alaykum.”
“Alaykum as-salaam,” Samir replied.
“His excellency has been awaiting the arrival of his favorite cousin with great anticipation,” the major-domo said. “He has requested that I bring you to him as soon as you arrive. He is in his apartment upstairs.”
They followed the major-domo through the empty cafe to the staircase at the rear of the great room. The cafe itself was quiet. The usually busy waiters stood around in clusters gossiping with one another, and near the stage, the orchestra sat smoking and talking. None of the singers or dancers was visible. Nothing would begin until the Prince gave the signal.
The apartments over the cafe were reserved for very special clients and their guests who, after a night of amusement in the cafe, might be too tired to make the journey home or who wished to stay and partake of further pleasures that could be provided by the management. The major-domo paused in front of a door and knocked.
“Who ith it?” a young boy’s voice answered.
“The Doctor Al Fay and his son are here to see his excellency,” the major-domo replied.
The door was opened by a young boy clothed in silken shirt and trousers. His eyes were heavily made up and his cheeks rouged and his fingernails long and painted. “Pleathe come in,” he lisped in English.
Baydr and his father entered the room. The faintly sweet odor of hashish hung in the air. The room was empty. “Pleathe be theated,” the boy said, indicating the sofas and chairs. He left them and went into another room.
Baydr and his father looked at each other without speaking.
The boy came back into the room. “Hith exthellenthy will be with you in a moment. Ith there anything I can do for you? A thweet? A refrethment perhapth? We have Englith whithkey if you prefer.”
Samir shook his head. “No, thank you.”
The door opened again and Prince Feiyad entered. He was fully dressed in his royal robes, his head covered in white muslin. He crossed the room to his cousin.
Samir and Baydr rose and made the traditional obeisance to their monarch. Feiyad brushed Samir’s arms aside with a smile. “Is that a way for cousins to meet after they had not seen each other for a long time?” He put his arms on Samir’s shoulders and kissed him on each cheek, then turned, still smiling, to Baydr. “And this is the little boy who cried when he went away to school?”
Baydr felt himself flushing. “That was a long time ago, your excellency.”
“Not too long,” the Prince said and laughed. “I think you were six then.”
“He’s eighteen now,” Samir said. “And a grown man, praise be to Allah.”
“Al-hamdu il-llah,” the Prince echoed. He looked up at Baydr, who stood a head taller than either of them. “He is tall, your son. Taller than anyone I remember in our family.
“It is the diet, your excellency,” Samir said. “The food in America is enriched with many vitamins and minerals. The entire younger generation is growing taller than their parents.”
“What miracles you scientists perform,” the Prince said.
“The miracles are Allah’s,” Samir said. “We are nothing but His instruments.”
The Prince nodded. “We have much to talk about, my cousin,” he said. “But we can do that in the morning. Tonight we must enjoy the pleasure of our reunion and each other’s company.” He clapped his hands. “I have had a suite made ready for you so that you may freshen yourselves after your journey. At midnight we will gather in the cafe below, where a feast has been prepared for us.”
Samir bowed. “We are most grateful for the kindness of your hospitality.”
The young boy appeared again. “Show my cousins to their apartments,” the Prince commanded.
The boy bowed. “It will be my pleathure, your exthellenthy.”
Baydr’s room was separated from his father’s by a large living room. He left his father and went into his bedroom, which was luxuriously furnished in rich silks and satins. The couches were covered with velour cushions. No sooner than he had entered, a soft knock came at the door. “Come in,” he called.
A young maidservant came into the room. She bowed her head respectfully. “May I be of service to the master?” she asked in a soft voice, her eyes properly averted.
“There is nothing I can think of.”
“Perhaps I can draw the master a hot bath so that he may wash away the fatigue of his journey?” she suggested.
“That would be nice,” he said.
“Thank you, master,” she said and crossed the room to the bathroom.
Baydr looked after her thoughtfully. Now he knew he was home. Service was not like this in America.
***
The noise of the kanoon and the drums flooded the cafe. On the small stage a dancer whirled, her multi-colored scarves floating around her, the silver metal of her brassiere reflecting the sparkling lights. At a horseshoe-shaped table at the front of the stage, the Prince’s party watched intently.
The Prince was seated at the center of the table, Samir in the place of honor on his right, Baydr on his left. Behind the Prince, on small stools, were several young boys, all wearing the same elaborate makeup as the young boy who had greeted them in the Prince’s suite. Standing behind them was the major-domo, who supervised the service of the waiters and other members of the staff. There were bottles of champagne in buckets near each guest and their glasses were constantly filled. The table was covered with more than fifty varieties of hors d’oeuvres and delicacies of the region. The guests ate with their fingers, and a servant delicately wiped their hands after each mouthful with a fresh warm damp cloth. At the door and against the wall stood a dozen of Feiyad’s personal guards, who never took their eyes from the Prince.
The music reached a crescendo and the dancer sank to her knees in finale. The Prince led the applause. At a gesture from him, the waiters snatched bottles of champagne from their buckets and kneeling before the stage popped the corks from bottle after bottle, shooting them high over the kneeling dancer’s head. Idly, the Prince picked up a bank note from a pile in front of him and, crumpling it in his hand, threw it onto the stage in front of the dancer.
With a fluid graceful motion, the dancer picked up the money and placed it in her belt just below her navel. She bowed again and smiling seductively backed off the stage.