“Shakira.” She said it again, and then, inside, she heard what she had yearned and strained to hear for so many years: her mother’s voice speaking her own true name. And she saw the fountain as if it were there in front of her, blocking out the drab office with its ugly, utilitarian furniture; and the scent of water, the wonderful scent of water on desert air, and of roses trembling under the droplets and releasing their perfumes, flooded her whole being.
Shakira. She heard her mother’s voice in her ears. My own rose.
She knew that it was true—this picture was her, and her name was Shakira. And she had been loved—once, long ago. It was not a memory her wishes had invented. It was true. The memories of love were true. She had had a family and they had loved her.
The tears welled up and poured over her cheeks in an abundance Sharif would not have believed possible. He had never seen such a flood from any creature’s eyes, and it made him think of some old, half-forgotten fairy tale where the princess wept a lake and then sailed away on it.
Her drowned eyes glittering like black diamonds behind the tears, she looked up at him, begging, “Who am I? Please, who am I?”
He hadn’t meant any of this to happen. His intention had been to leave the Sultan and his family to deal with the whole delicate issue of identity and reclamation. But, however unintentionally, he had created this moment. He could not deny her now. He could not add to the intolerable suffering of years with even another day’s delay.
“You—” He discovered that he could hardly speak for the choke of feeling in his own throat. He coughed and swallowed and tried again. “Your full name is Shakira Warda Jawad al Nadim.”
“Why did you come for me? Who wants me? My family is all dead.”
Her black diamond eyes pierced him with such longing to be contradicted that his own heart nearly broke.
“No. Your own closest family are gone, but there are others. You have a large family of cousins, aunts and uncles,” Sharif began.
A wail tore from her throat, a howl that shook him in his deepest being, for it was the cry of release from a terrible, unimaginable grief. The child leapt to her feet, the noise still pouring from her throat as the tears from her eyes, as though nothing could stop the flood. She flung herself against his chest, her hands clutching folds of his kaftan as if to shake the truth from him, and the flooded eyes gazed up into his.
“Cousins? I have cousins, aunts, uncles? My own, my own family? They know who I am?” she demanded.
Someone opened the door of the office and a curious head peered around it at him, but with a frown Sharif sent the fool scuttling back, and they were alone again. He gently set his hands on the thin little shoulders as emotion racked her body.
“They are waiting to welcome you home.”
A thousand memories welled up inside Shakira now, potent and irresistible, a flood of grief and joy, as if the sound of her own name had unlocked a door behind which everything had been hidden. The faces of her father and mother, her brothers and sisters, flashed in her mind, one after another, all together. The house, the fountain, the rose garden, the beauty that had once surrounded her. Music. A book, with the picture of a prince and princess in gorgeous robes on a flying horse, high over a city of domes and minarets.
Voices. Her name, and others. A jumble of sensation and emotion that overwhelmed her. Those who had loved her, whom she had been forced to forget.
The memories flooded through her, and the memory of happiness, filling her so powerfully with both pain and joy that she felt she couldn’t hold it all.
When the storm had passed, she wiped her face with her hands and her T-shirt, and gazed hungrily up into his face.
“Are you my cousin?” she asked, yearning for a connection with him that would make her homecoming immediate. “Are you my family?”
Family. The word had a ring that he had never heard before, like a starving man pronouncing bread. An unfamiliar protectiveness welled up in him, and he wished he could be the person she wanted him to be.
“I am not related to you. I was sent to find you by your cousin, who is the head of your family. He has only just learned that you are alive. Until now, he believed that you had died in the accident with your parents.”
“He thought I was dead?” She gazed at him. “Who is my cousin? What is his name? Why didn’t he come to find me himself?”
Sharif pressed his lips together, and said slowly, “I think the answer to your questions will be a…an even bigger surprise to you. Your father was related to a very important Bagestani family.”
Her eyes showed such a kaleidoscope of doubt, incredulity and suspicion that Sharif could almost have laughed.
“Important?” she repeated, the child who had been among the forgotten of humanity for nearly ten years.
It was probably stupid to tell her like this, but the situation had been created now, and it was impossible not to go on.
“Mahlouf Jawad al Nadim was the grandson of the last Sultan. Your cousin is Ashraf al Jawadi, the newly crowned Sultan of Bagestan. Shakira, you—you are a princess.”
The polished domes and minarets of Medinat al Bostan gleamed in the afternoon sun as they flew in, hazy and shimmering, a dream city. The blue, turquoise and purple-tiled dome was the Old Palace, now restored, Sharif told her, to its former use as the home of the Sultan, and to its former name, the Jawad Palace.
“Like me,” said Shakira.
The Shah Jawad Mosque was a dome of burnished gold at the opposite end of a green and beautiful square that was the heart of the city. Under Ghasib it had been made into a museum. That, too, had been restored to its former use.
The templates had faded in her heart, like a dream that cannot be held. She had been so young when she had been torn from her home. The reality of life in the camps had battered the memory, for how could such beauty exist in the world side by side with what she knew?
Now it was as if a magic hand restored the dream images in all their glorious perfection of colour and shape, and her heart leapt with feeling. Home. At long last she was home.
“Will I see my family there?” she had asked during the long, interminable hours of waiting, while Farida and her little girl talked and laughed and ran to and fro, astonished at the jet’s unabashed luxury, as the stewardess showed them around.
Shakira had not joined them. She sat in her seat opposite Sharif with a grave face, her eyes dark with a mix of emotions. Against the background of the lavishly fitted jet, one of Ghasib’s private fleet that was being used by the Sultan’s government now, the marks of the Princess’s life of deprivation were thrown into sharp relief. The painfully thin body, the ragged, sunburnt hair, the cheap boy’s clothes, and, most of all, the haunted eyes were a reproach to the background of opulence. No one, he thought, could have looked less like a princess of the ruling house.
“Some of them,” he had assured her. “Everyone who can. Many have not returned to Bagestan yet.”
“Some,” she repeated, who had none. “Many.”
“Yes, that is how you will number your family in future.”
Nothing in his life had ever pulled at his heart as did this desperate child’s anguished yearning for someone to call her own.
“My cousins.” She breathed deeply. “Will you tell me about my family?”
Of course he told her. “Your great-grandfather Sultan Hafzuddin had three wives, Rabia, Sonia and Maryam. Between them they had many children and grandchildren….”
Shakira had sat wide-eyed, drinking it in like water in a desert, the story of her heritage. “My grandmother was a famous singer?” she said when he stopped.