THE NEXT MORNING HE IS there, more beautiful in the full light of day than he has ever been in the cover of the darkened market stalls. He is dressed in a jewel-toned djellaba; the loose-fitting robe flows down to his ankles like the river on a calm day and mimics the inky blue of a cloudless sky turning into night. When I knew him as a soldier, I believed that his confidence was born from practiced invincibility, or an assumption that he could defend me against any attacker. But there was always a kernel of doubt: his smooth, callus-free hands, his love for poetry. It hinted at something more. Now I see it for what it truly is: the sickly-sweet stench of extreme wealth and the power that comes with it.
Beauty is deceiving anyway. They say I am beautiful, and what has it gotten me?
Binta leads the betrothed into the main room and presses herself into the corner as chaperone and spy. She pretends to shell peanuts as she listens. I sit opposite Fayid, too outraged for pretense.
“As-salaam ’alaykum,” he says as I enter the room.
“Wa’alaykum salaam,” I say, chafing at the formality. Is this the same carefree boy who fed me dates in an abandoned river stall? Which one is real, this prince or the kind pauper I grew to care for?
“Sayid Mustafa sent word that he has discussed my proposal with you.”
I nod. “I would like the opportunity to speak truthfully,” I say, unable to hold my feelings in any longer.
“Now you would like to speak truthfully? It seems quite late in the day to start there,” he replies. He looks a bit taken aback but then relaxes in his chair, letting his long legs fall out a bit wider. A small curve of his lip hints at an irritated smile. Here is my soldier, not the nobleman courting Iyin at the door. “You let me think you were a merchant’s daughter,” he says.
“I told you, plainly, I was a slave,” I reply, knowing full well I wasn’t believed.
“How could I have known? You—”
“You saw what you wanted to see, and then you lied in turn,” I finish, tired of this game of deception.
His fist clenches but he doesn’t deny it.
I swallow deep, trying my best to hold back my indignation and replace the tide with something that feels more like courage. “Sayid Mustafah has informed me that I am to be a concubine, serving my master as a servant as she serves you as your wife. Congratulations on finding such a wife. You have reached high. You are blessed indeed,” I say, void of any emotion.
I stare defiantly at him, waiting for him to deny how advantageous his choice of wife is to a man of his standing. This is a strategic step for him, a noble name to add to his military connection. A lineage to attach himself to in this region. Maybe if we’d talked more than felt, I would have guessed at how adept he was at politics.
“Marriage is not so simple,” he says, a hint of annoyance lacing his words.
I grip my arms tighter, willing myself to stay calm. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow the acid back, grateful for the reminder that fate is not my friend.
“Tamar, you cannot be so stubborn. I have done what I can,” he says, his voice breaking. “I asked for your hand. It will always be known that you were first in my heart.” He leans closer, his voice dropping in pitch for my benefit. “You will always be first in my home.”
“But not in name,” I croak.
He leans even closer, but with less softness. His other side shines now, the man with a title, the kind of person who is used to getting what he wants without interference. But I will not make my own subjugation easy for him or anyone else.
“Do you remember the first time you touched my hand? I had been following you again, waiting for a moment where we could talk without being seen. You purchased a fish from a stall and plunged your hands into a pot of cool water to rinse them. I found some reason to rinse my hands as well, and your fingers slid across mine. I lost my ability to speak after you touched me.”
He laughs at his own story, and I hate myself for thinking how beautiful he is when he is laughing. “You pluck a string in my chest that I can’t stop from vibrating. Every night I dream of you. Nonsensical dreams that say that I am meant to be with you,” he whispers. He settles back onto his stool and winces as he rubs the leg he favors when he walks. If I’d paid more attention, I would have known he wasn’t a soldier by that fact alone.
“Dreams are not reality. You know nothing of what it is to be a woman or to serve.” My voice strains under the weight of his betrayal.
“It is your service that makes you strong. Very few women enter the market alone, bold in their pursuit of the things they need. They allow expectations and fear to cow them, but not you. It is your strength that I admire most.”
I don’t always want to be strong. It is a mask I hide behind. But I put on the mask now, and for a moment I imagine again what this new life might be like. Fayid takes this opportunity to make his plea.
“Tamar, I may not be able to lay the moon at your feet, but please allow me to give you the stars.”