1
Warm, arid wind tore across Wasim’s face as he crouched over the white Arabian horse, riding without a saddle. He’d lost his ghutra half a mile back when the white headdress and the agal flew off his head and became a casualty of the speed of galloping hooves.
The air whipped erratically at his clothing as the heels of his bare feet pressed into the horse’s ribs, encouraging her to go faster. She tore across the ground, kicking up dust and racing toward the finish line, past shrubs and bushes that whizzed by in a blur of green against the golden desert sands.
Though a competition, the race was one of the ways Wasim bonded with his large family, an ancient sport and form of entertainment that was part of their Arab heritage. His two half-brothers rode close behind him, one on either side, bearing down his neck. His other brothers were farther behind, younger and not as experienced and unable to match the speed of their older siblings. Nonetheless, the thundering hooves of his pursuers urged Wasim to maintain a fast and steady pace, victory almost within reach.
The group rushed onward with him leading the pack and finally, with a cry of victory, he crossed the finish line drawn in the sand, sailing past the group of friends and family gathered to watch—huddled in groups or seated atop the roofs of their vehicles—with cameras trained on the racers. With their fists raised, cheers went up from the spectators, and Wasim grinned in satisfaction, pulling back on the reins to reduce the horse’s speed. The slowdown continued as he rubbed and gently patted her neck to show his appreciation for her hard work and bringing him yet another victory.
“I can’t believe you won again!” Akmal, one of his brothers, yelled from behind him.
Wasim chuckled and steered the horse into a U-turn. “You should be used to it by now,” he said arrogantly.
His brother shook his head in disgust, and Wasim laughed even harder.
Guiding the horse into a trot, he lifted onto his bare feet on her back, standing upright and holding the reins. He received more cheers and congratulations as he made a victory lap around his friends, cousins, and the ten of his sixteen siblings in attendance. When he finished showboating, he jumped off the horse and handed off the reins to an aide. He received a few pats on the back as he made his way to the food that had been set up for their evening meal.
Wasim rinsed his hands and joined the men congregated together. The women and children huddled at tables nearby, and the bodyguards ate finger foods and drank standing up, ever vigilant in the protection of the royal family.
The servants had prepared a feast of roasted goat, fragrant rice, and other fixings sure to satisfy after the tough race. Wasim sat cross-legged on one of the colorful pillows on the ground before a low table filled with food and drinks and picked up a piece of pita bread. He scooped up some hummus and popped the morsel into his mouth.
“You’re ruthless, Wasim. You could at least let one of your brothers win one time.” Farouk, his friend and the husband of his older sister, sat across from him and barely hid his amusement. He was a thin man with a narrow face and very tall, standing a full head above Wasim.
“And why would I do that?” Wasim lifted his cup, and a servant came over and filled it with water.
“Out of the kindness of your heart.”
Wasim took several large gulps and then had the servant refill the cup. “And let them think I’m soft? No way. I have to keep them humble.”
Akmal picked up a piece of goat meat with his fingers. “His arrogance knows no bounds,” he muttered.
They didn’t have the same mother, yet there was no doubt that they were related—with the same copper-brown eyes and strong features inherited from their father. But Akmal was clean-shaven and as their father often complained, wore his hair too long.
Wasim clapped his brother on the back. “I’m tired of all the flattery.”
The men all chuckled, and then the conversation turned to lighter topics as they caught up on each other’s lives. Farouk announced that Wasim’s sister was pregnant with their second child. One of their cousin’s sons was headed to the United States for college, but his mother was worried about all the reports of gun violence in the country.
They continued talking as the sun went down behind the dunes and the night air grew cooler. The servants set up torches around the encampment, and after some time, the conversation turned to more serious matters.
“How was your fact-finding trip?” one of Wasim’s younger brothers asked.
“Worth it. I learned a lot.”
He had spent the last two weeks in Dubai, Paris, and Cairo, talking to government officials and engineers about the rapid transit systems in their countries. Currently, Barrakesch only had public buses, but with traffic becoming a problem as the country’s population grew rapidly and tourism increased, his father had expressed interest in a rail system to ease congestion.
“When are you going to give Father a full report?” Akmal asked.
“In a couple of days, when he gets back from his trip. In the meantime, I have some personal things to take care of,” Wasim said vaguely. He didn’t mention that included a visit to the woman who’d spent way too much time in his thoughts during the two weeks he’d been gone. Silence met his response, and to put off further questions, he added, “I’m waiting for a few of the figures regarding cost, but I’ll have a full report soon.”
“Makes sense,” Farouk said.
Wasim glanced at his brother, who their father wanted to become more involved in the issues of transportation. “Akmal, will you be at the palace and able to attend?”
His younger brother nodded. “I’ll be there, Inshallah. I’m interested to see what you learned and how it could help us.”
“Good.”
These periods with his family were extremely important to Wasim but became rarer as they all became more preoccupied with their own lives. He glanced up at the star-filled sky. One of his favorite times to be in the desert was at night, when the stars dotted the dark canvas that could be black one day or—depending on location and the time of year—shades of blue and rose another. The vastness of the universe never failed to amaze him, and he could almost believe that if he stretched out a hand he’d touch one of the tiny dots, though they were trillions of miles away.
Much as he loved the peaceful atmosphere, fatigue threatened to overtake him. He’d arrived back in the country only this morning, and after handling personal meetings, had attended the race. He hadn’t had a chance to wind down yet and needed to rest.
Stifling a yawn, he rose from the pillow.
“Going to bed already, old man?” Farouk teased.
“I’m afraid so. The bed of this old man is calling.”
Wasim said goodbye to everyone, stopping first to give his older sister a kiss and congratulate her on the new baby. Then he walked away from the large group to a Jeep on the edge of the encampment. Five bodyguards followed.
He climbed into the passenger seat and the driver took off. His security—two each in a vehicle—shadowed them toward the capital city of Kabatra. Once they left the desert, two motorcycles joined the procession by pulling in front of the vehicle Wasim rode in.
As the eldest son and heir to the throne, Wasim had been gifted his own palace at the age of twenty-five. It was located about twenty miles outside the capital and within full view of the Persian Gulf. The entire complex was an extravagant display of wealth, though it paled in comparison to The Grand White Palace where his family lived.