The Marriage Deal Page 18

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “What would the point have been?” I shrug. “I’m not a petty man, Malik Hassan. I needed your daughter to marry me for stability in the eastern regions. She did so willingly. I have no interest in hurting her unnecessarily – and the truth of your acts would have devastated her, believe me.”

  I draw myself to my full height, a redundant measure given his diminutive stature. “I came here to give you this single instruction: do not confide your guilt to her. She does not need to know. Amy had no part in your actions, and she deserves better than to understand them fully. If you love your daughter, you will spare her this pain, as I intend to.”

  He stares at me blankly. I finish my drink then place the glass down.

  “I will not see you again,” I say at the door, drawing it inwards as he stands.

  “Your highness.” I stiffen, unwilling to prolong this meeting.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do not thank me. None of this is for you, old man.” I turn to face him for the last time in my life. “Your daughter has bought your second chance; do not squander it.”

  Amy

  One week after my father’s return to Qabid, finally the time has come to see him. The car brings me to the house in Thakirt, and despite the fact I was here recently, it’s different enough to elicit a sound of surprise. The door has been replaced, as Zahir said it would be, but it’s also been given a fresh coat of paint. The garden looks different too, the bushes have been tended to, trimmed neatly, the windows cleaned, all the grime I’d noticed previously removed so they shimmer in the morning sun.

  The hallway shows more changes – the light fitting is new, the window at the back repaired, everything cleaned and tidied. My father is in his sitting room when I enter.

  I pause on the threshold, a strange sense that I’m falling through the cracks of time, that perhaps the last sixteen years never happened after all? I stare at him for several seconds and then he stands, the chair creaking. I move quickly then, half-running across to him, wrapping my arms around his body, sobbing into his neck.

  “You’re home, daddy.”

  He makes a noise that may very well be a sob. I hold him close, and in this moment, I know I’ve done the right thing. Whatever pain my marriage causes me, whatever difficulties come from caring for Zahir, this was the right thing to do.

  “I’m home,” he says, after a long moment, pulling back to look at me, studying me as if to determine my state of mind. So I smile brightly, reassuring him.

  “What do you think?” I step further back, twirling so he can see the gown I wear – regal and bright.

  His chuckle is so familiar, my heart bursts. “You look like a princess.”

  “Apparently, that’s what I am. Or an Emira,” I say with a shake of my head.

  “But Amy, are you happy?”

  I ignore the ache low in the pit of my stomach, the feeling that I’ve taken up an impossible position, permanently pulled between my father and my husband, and I nod like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I am, dad. And seeing you here makes me even more so.”

  “I never thought I would see this place again.” He shakes his head. “I just worry at what you’ve gotten yourself into; what you’ve given up.”

  “Nothing,” I say truthfully. “Believe me, dad, I walked into this marriage with my eyes open. It was the right thing to do.”

  “But Zahir is –,” he frowns, shakes his head.

  Something dangerous prickles along my spine and I find myself turning away from him. “Have you eaten? I had the palace make some lunch. Your favourites. Shall we sit in the kitchen?”

  An hour later, the meal is finished. We made small talk as we ate. The village, the people he’s seen, the changes he’s noticed, and I try not to push him, to interrogate him about the people in particular he’s been with, I try not to be suspicious of my father, as Zahir would be. This is my dad, for God’s sake, and I know he’s not capable of what Zahir thinks.

  Except I cannot believe both men. I can’t hold my dad’s innocence as an incontrovertible truth at the same time I have faith in Zahir’s ability to do the right thing at all times. One man is wrong. One man erred. And my father has had to live with the consequences.

  Indecision sours my mood.

  “I should get back to the palace,” I say, as he finishes his coffee.

  He nods, and I feel as though he’s on the brink of saying something. I wait, but then, instead, he folds me into his arms.

  “Thank you, Amy. I can never repay you for this. Just promise me –,” he looks up at my face. “Promise me you’re okay?”

  “I am,” I say, without missing a beat. And as the car draws closer back to the palace, I really feel it.

  * * *

  “I saw him today.” I blurt the words out, guilt colouring my cheeks. I don’t hold Zahir’s eyes. Instead, I focus on the meal in front of us. Since the evening in the almrisad, we’ve taken to sharing dinner each night. It’s a small act of domesticity that warms me to the core.

  “I know.”

  I nod. Of course he does. He’s probably informed of all my movements.

  “How was it?”

  I note he doesn’t ask how was ‘he’. It’s a small distinction. He’s asking about my experience, not my father.

  “Strange.” I focus on the practicalities. “The house was different. Someone had repaired all the damage, cleaned it, tidied it. It looked like new.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Zahir? Who did that?”

  His eyes spear mine. “It wasn’t fit for habitation.”

  It’s a gross mischaracterisation. “It was fine,” I dismiss. “A little rundown, but nothing awful.”

  He takes a sip of his wine.

  I let it go.

  “It was good to see him home again. It made me feel…certain…that this was all worth it.”

  A muscle jerks low in his jaw. “I’m glad.”

  It sounds as though my father’s happiness is the only consideration, as though there is no value in our marriage besides that.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “That you saw your father? I presumed you would.”

  “I know, it’s just…” How can I express this? Like I’ve betrayed Zahir or something. I shake my head, pulling my hair over one shoulder. “It doesn’t matter.”

  His eyes chase my hair and desire licks in the pit of my stomach. He’s obsessed with my hair. It’s colour and length, the golden highlights that have been drawn out by the Qabidi sun.

  “See him as often as you want, little one. Just be careful.”

  I blink at him. “You still don’t trust me?”

  “I trust you.”

  I sigh. “But not my father?”

  He reaches across the table. “Treat him with caution.”

  * * *

  I walk this tightrope for another week. Three times I visit my father and after each visit, I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt, as though the more time I spend with dad, the more I’m wronging Zahir. But it’s nice to be home again. In a place that has so many happy memories for me – memories of mum, dad, our family, my childhood, such a simple, uncomplicated time. To see dad surrounded by old friends. We do crosswords together in the mornings, then eat lunch, before I return to the palace. I used to think of the palace as a gilded cage and now it’s, simply, home.

  Perhaps the old adage of home being where the heart is rings true? Because my heart is in the palace, or wherever Zahir happens to be.

  I love him.

  I can’t fight it any longer.

  I know it’s foolish and that he’ll likely never feel that for me, and yet it’s buried in my chest nonetheless.

  On the same day I force myself to accept that reality, I get confirmation that I’m not pregnant with his baby, and grief perforates my being.

  I find it hard to look at him.

  “I thought I might go and stay with dad tonight,” I say, not wantin
g to show him my upset, nor explain the rationale behind it.

  I can see he doesn’t like the idea, but he dips his head. “Fine. Take care.”

  It’s what he says whenever I go. Take care. As though there is some inherent risk in spending time with my own father.

  Dad and I sort through some boxes, old albums filled with mum’s photos. He’d tried so hard to have these sent to the states but the Qabidi government wouldn’t cooperate – they would send nothing to him from home. I’m strangely glad now – glad to have this treasure trove of memories to go through together.

  I decide to stay a second night, the knowledge that Zahir and my efforts to conceive haven’t been successful too raw to discuss with my husband. I know I’m being a coward.

  I miss you being here.

  His text comes through close to midnight.

  I stare at it with eyes that are filled with tears. My throat is thick with them.

  I don’t write back because I can’t. I don’t trust myself not to respond with I love you. The words are always at the forefront of my mind, tingling against the tip of my tongue, demanding that I issue them.

  16

  Amy

  “Dad?” I wander into the kitchen to find him staring out at the window, a mournful look on his face. It hits me then how much he’s missed, and how much my husband is to blame for that.

  He turns to look at me and smiles, but it’s a smile that is hard-fought.

  “You must be so…disappointed,” I say quietly.

  “Why?”

  “My marriage.” I look down at the ring on my hand and see it like a weight. “I know how you feel about him. What he did to you.”

  His frown is a flicker of his lips.

  I put my hand over dad’s. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Without this, I wouldn’t have been able to come back.”

  “I know. But is it worth it?”

  He stares at me, scanning my face.

  “I’ve married the enemy.”

  “Whose enemy?”

  “Ours.”

  “Not yours.”

  “But daddy, after what he did to you…I’ve seen you broken by him, by his decisions. I don’t know what I was thinking, to come here and agree to this.”

  “You wanted me to be able to come back,” he says gently. “The past is a very long way in the past. It’s over.”

  “Is it?” I push, shaking my head with frustration. “I’ve seen it reach through your entire life. He might have made the decision to exile you sixteen years ago but you’ve carried that burden every day since.”

  He’s quiet, sipping his coffee.

  “Do you regret marrying him?” He asks gently, and I’m reminded for a moment of my mother, and the way she had of tiptoeing around a conversation to get at the heart of what she wanted to know.

  “It’s hard to explain,” I answer, finally.

  “No, it’s easy.” He gestures to the table and then takes a seat. I choose the one to his right. “You haven’t done anything that can’t be undone,” he says quietly.

  I shake my head, knowing that’s not true. Oh, the contract could be set aside. There’s a chance Zahir would send my father back to the States, but I’m not completely sure of that. He’s not the monster I believed him to be, nowhere near it. Look at what he did to dad’s house! Getting it cleaned, repaired, stocking the pantry, so it would be ready for habitation?

  But it’s so much more complicated. How do you stop loving someone? Leaving him wouldn’t do it. The contract is a redundancy in my considerations, my original motivations seeming foolish now.

  “How can you be so calm about this?” I shake my head. “I’ve married the man who ruined your life. How can you sit there and talk to me about it as though it means nothing?”

  There is only the clicking and ticking of the ancient hall clock.

  “He didn’t ruin my life, shaba, I did.”

  I blink at my father. “How can you say that?”

  “I’m not meant to say anything, actually. Your husband swore me to secrecy.”

  I lean forward, all the breath rushing out of my lungs. “About what? When?”

  “When he came to me.”

  “He came to you?”

  He nods slowly. “The night I landed. I take it you didn’t know?”

  “No. I had no idea.” I’m numb to my core. “What did he say? Did he apologise?”

  My father’s eyes sweep shut. “Darling girl, you can’t –,” he cuts himself off, then fixes me with an urgent stare. “You’re misunderstanding everything.”

  “What do you mean?” Nothing makes sense.

  “Your husband thinks that if you know the truth, it will destroy you. He believes you cannot handle hearing an honest account of my actions, and so he’s protected you from it. He asked me to do the same, but I can’t. Not seeing how you are blaming him even now.”

  I feel like the floor is cracking apart and I’m slipping through it.

  “You’re lying to defend him? Is this what he asked you to do? Did he put you up to this?”

  “He asked me one thing and one thing only: to do the right thing by you.”

  “As if you need to be asked,” I snap, standing jerkily, moving to the sink. I brace my hands on the edges of it, staring out of the window, down into the town.

  “I was part of a group here, shaba. A small yet powerful, politically-motivated group. I was not the leader, but I was prominent and I was liked. The group formed because of me,” his voice is cracked. “My family’s claim to the throne…”

  My spine tingles. Blood is rushing through me hard and fast. There is no way he is connected to the ruling line. Zahir’s words from long ago come back to me, reminding me of how adamant he’d been on that score.

  “There were twelve of us in total, though beyond that, we had a network of sympathetic friends, people who would pass us information and help us with our…plans.”

  “What plans?” My eyes are shut, as though I can blot out reality this way.

  “What do you think?” For a moment there is anger in his voice, and then weariness.

  “I think you’re innocent,” I say in a rush.

  “In that I didn’t carry out the plans? Perhaps.”

  “Oh, daddy.” I can’t look at him. “You planned to kill him? Tell me that’s not true.”

  His eyes are defensive. “To depose him, ideally,” he says eventually, choosing his words carefully. “Though I knew about other plans, plans that would kill him, yes.”

  Pain slashes through me. “You’d never let that happen. You’d never let anyone do that to another person, just for the sake of the throne?”

  His silence withers something inside of me. “Daddy?”

  I revert to the childish name because I need reassurance now more than ever.

  “I don’t know,” he says eventually. “It never came to that. I hated him, Amy. I hated him with all that I was, back then.”

  I bite my tongue to stop from sobbing.

  “The group was motivated. Determined. They felt victory was within sight.” He hesitates. “They’d already had success, you see, and with that came confidence that they could achieve anything.”

  I suck in a deep breath. “What success?”

  “His father.”

  “Oh my God.” I press my hand to my mouth. “No.” I need this not to be true. It’s the most awful thing I can learn. My knees tremble. “You must be mistaken.”

  “He was poisoned by a member of our group over the course of several months.”

  “Dad. No.” It’s all I’m capable of saying.

  “I didn’t know about it at the time. Not for certain.”

  “But you suspected?”

  I face him just in time to see his eyes squeeze shut. “I don’t know. No. Not that. I knew they wanted to act, but I had no idea they were already moving the pieces. It was all…theoretical.”

  I take him at his word because I have to. I’m not ready to believe my father
is a murderer. “Would you have stopped it if you’d known?”

  At least he doesn’t lie to me. “I don’t know. You have to believe this, Amy. I was a different man then. My time in the States, my exile, has made me look at everything differently. I am grateful, so grateful, that I never had the chance to do more than plot.”

  I’m shaking all over. I stare at my father and realise I have no idea who he is. I’ve been wrong all this time and Zahir’s been right. Again and again, I’ve thrown my father’s innocence at him, begged him to be nicer to the man who was part of a group that killed his own beloved father. How he must have hated that. Hated me?

  My skin flushes with unbearable heat. “I can’t believe this. I have to go.”

  “Listen to me.” Despite his revelations, his voice still has the power to bring me to a stop. “He asked me not to tell you this. He believed it would be too hard for you to hear, too hard for you to face this truth, but I needed you to know it. I am everything he believes me to be. At least, I was. And I’m sorry. I let you down, and I let your mother down. I gambled our lives on a fanciful, stupid political game. I have regretted my actions every day of my life.”

  I sob, because I do believe him. But it’s too late, too much has happened, too much has been lost.

  “I have to go.” I leave and I don’t look back, because finally I realise: looking back is the root of all evil.

  “You should have told me.” I slam the door behind me, stalking across his office, ignoring the presence of two security officers by the door. Zahir dismisses them with a small wave of his hand.

  “Told you what?” He’s guarded, staring at me as though he doesn’t know everything my dad just revealed.

  “Damn it, I know,” I say, shaking my head, no idea how pale I am, how wild I look. “Dad told me everything.”

  Zahir swore under his breath. “Still unable to be trusted.”

  “Don’t. Don’t do that. I’m not excusing any of his choices back then, not by a longshot, but this is different. How dare you keep this from me? How dare you let me go on defending him to you after what he did?” My voice softens, anguish flooding me. “Zahir, how have you been able to go through with this?”