shrugged irritably. “You’re a Cup Companion—the press attention is part of your job. And anyway, you’re one of twelve. I’m a university lecturer in a small city in Scotland, where princesses are not numbered in the dozens. I don’t want anyone at home to know.”
He slowed at the approach to the paved road and turned the car towards the city. Two journalists’ cars were now following them.
“Aren’t you exaggerating? You aren’t a member of the British royal family, after all. Just a small Middle Eastern state.”
“I hope you’re right.” She chewed her lip. “But the media in Europe have had an ongoing obsession with the royal family of the Barakat Emirates for the past five years—and it jumped to Bagestan like wildfire over a ditch the moment Ghasib’s dictatorship fell and Ashraf al Jawadi was crowned. If I’m outed as a princess of Bagestan, my privacy is—” Blowing a small raspberry she made a sign of cutting her throat.
“Only if you continue to live abroad,” he pointed out. “Why not come home?”
Jalia stiffened. “Because Bagestan is not ‘home’ to me,” she said coldly. “I am English, as you well know.”
The black gaze flicked her again, unreadable. “That can be overcome,” he offered, as if her Englishness were some kind of disability, and Jalia clenched her teeth. “You would soon fit in. There are many posts available in the universities here. Ash is working hard to—”
“I teach classical Arabic to English speakers, Latif,” Jalia reminded him dryly. “I don’t even speak Bagestani Arabic.”
She felt a sudden longing for the cool of an English autumn, rain against the windows, the smell of books and cheap carpet and coffee in her tiny university office, the easy, unemotional chatter of her colleagues.
“I am sure you know that educated Bagestani Arabic is close to the classical Quranic language. You would soon pick it up.” He showed his white teeth in a smile, and her stomach tightened. “The bazaar might take you a little longer.”
The big souk in Medinat al Bostan was a clamour on a busy day, and the clash between country and city dialects had over the years spontaneously produced the bazaar’s very own dialect, called by everyone shaerashouk—“bazaar poetry.”
Jalia looked at him steadily, refusing to share the joke. She had heard the argument from her mother too often to laugh now. And his motives were certainly suspect.
“And I’d be even more in the public eye, wouldn’t I?” she observed with a wide-eyed, you-don’t-fool-me-for-a-minute look.
“Here you would be one of many, and your activities would rarely come under the spotlight unless you wished it. The palace machine would protect you.”
“It would also dictate to me,” she said coolly. “No, thank you! I prefer independence and anonymity.”
He didn’t answer, but she saw his jaw clench with suppressed annoyance. For a moment she was on the brink of asking him why it should mean anything to him, but Jalia, too, suppressed the instinct. With Latif Abd al Razzaq, it was better to avoid the personal.
Silence fell between them. Latif concentrated on his driving. One of the press cars passed, a camera trained on them, and then roared off in a cloud of exhaust.
She couldn’t stop irritably turning the conversation over in her head. Why was he pushing her? What business was it of Latif Abd al Razzaq’s where she lived?
“Why are you carrying my mother’s banner?” she demanded after a short struggle. “From her it’s just about understandable. What’s your angle? Why do you care what I do with my life?”
In the silence that fell, Jalia watched a muscle leap in his jaw. She had the impression that he was struggling for words.
“Do you not care about this country?” he demanded at last, his voice harsh and grating on her. “Bagestan has suffered serious loss to its professional and academic class over the past thirty years—too many educated people fled abroad. If its citizens who were born abroad do not return… You are an al Jawadi by birth, granddaughter of the deposed Sultan. Do you not feel that the al Jawadi should show the way?”
Jalia felt a curious, indefinable sense of letdown.
“You’ve already convinced my parents to return,” she said coolly, for Latif’s efforts on their behalf, tracking down titles to her family’s expropriated property and tracing lost art treasures grabbed by Ghasib’s favourites, had been largely successful, paving the way for them to make the shift.
“And my younger sister is considering it. Why can’t you be satisfied with that?”
“Your parents are retirement age. Your sister is a schoolgirl.”
Jalia was now feeling the pressure. “Nice to have a captive audience!” she snapped. “Is this why you decided I should come with you on this wild-goose chase? You wanted to deliver a lecture? Do you enjoy preaching duty to people? You should have been a mullah, Latif! Maybe it’s not too late even now!”
He flashed her a look. “My opinion would not anger you if you did not, in your heart, accept what I say. It is yourself you are angry with—the part that tells you you have a duty that is larger than your personal life.”
She was, oddly, lost for an answer to this ridiculous charge. It simply wasn’t true. Neither in her heart nor her head did she feel any obligation to return to Bagestan to nurture its recovery from thirty years of misrule. Until a few weeks ago she hadn’t spent one day in the country of her parents’ birth—why should she now be expected to treat it as her own homeland?
In spite of her parents’ best efforts to prevent it, England was home to her.
“Look—I’ve got a life to live, and I’ve paid a price for the choices I’ve made. Why should I now throw away the sense of belonging I’ve struggled for all my life, and reach for another to put in its place? I don’t belong here, however deeply my parents do. I never will.”
He didn’t answer, and another long silence fell, during which he watched the road and she gazed out at the vast stretch of desert, thinking.
Her parents had tried to keep her from feeling she belonged in England, the land of her birth, and she was resentfully aware that to some extent they had succeeded. Her sense of place was less rooted than her friends’—she had always known that.
Maybe that was why she clung so firmly to what she did feel. She knew how difficult it was to find a sense of belonging. Such things didn’t come at will.
At the time of the coup some three decades ago, her parents had been newly married. Her mother, one of the daughters of the Sultan’s French wife, Sonia, and her father, scion of a tribal chief allied by blood and marriage to the al Jawadi for generations past, had both been in grave danger from Ghasib’s squad of assassins. They had fled to Parvan and taken new identities, and the then King of Parvan, Kavad Panj, had put the couple on the staff of the Parvan Embassy in London.
Jalia had passed her childhood in a country that was not “her own,” raised on dreams of the land that was. As she grew older, she began to fear the power of those dreams that gripped her parents so inescapably, and to resent that distant homeland from which she was forever banished. From
