one

, .

am eighteen and I have just met my prince. He is a dark, hand-
some, charming, sophisticated, and wealthy foreign student. We
are in college in America. I am the only woman who matters to
him. I have a nineteen-inch waist and embarrassingly full lips. The whole
world is mine. I believe I am invincible and will live forever.
True, he is a Muslim and I am a Jew. I am very Jewish. But he is the
Agha Khan, and I am Rita Hayworth. He is Yul Brynner, and I am Ger-
trude Lawrence in The King and I.
Years later I would learn that this beloved musical is based on the
chilling diary of Anna H. Leonowens. Entitled Siamese Harem Life, it
documents the slavery, cruelty, and other practices that are considered
customary in the East.
Unfortunately I fall in love before I fnd this extraordinary volume.
My prince, Abdul-Kareem, is from Afghanistan. He is not really
a royal prince but he conducts himself like one. Everyone around him
treats him with exaggerated deferenceespecially Americans who love
to rub shoulders with royalty.
His father helped found Afghanistans frst modern banking system
and owns and runs the countrys largest import-export company, in ad-
dition to many farms, homes, and properties. When he visits New York,
he stays at the Plaza.
I am a frst-generation American on my fathers side. My mother
is the only one in her family who was born in the United States. Her
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4 , ,. .
parents and sisters came from the Austro-Hungarian empirein other
words, from Poland. I feel lucky to live in a country where a young
woman on a full college scholarship can meet such an interesting person
from such a faraway place.
Abdul-Kareem wears a silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of his
well-made suit. He also wears designer sunglasses, even in winter. Ive
seen men do that only in movies. He is suave and self-assured and has
thick dark hair, golden skin, and penetrating eyes. I have never met any-
one like him. Years later I decide that Abdul-Kareem most resembles the
Egyptian actor Omar Sharif.
The whole thing is biblical. He is Prince Shechem, I am Dina.
Some say that one of the lost tribes of Israel left Babylon for Persia
and then went to Afghanistan. Maybe Abdul-Kareem is a descendent of
Joseph, that most splendid Hebrew Egyptian, a fgure I adore.
When I get to Kabul, it is like stepping into the Bible. Here are the
nomads, caravans, fat-tailed sheep, camels, turbans, veiled and shrouded
women, a pleasant confusion of ancient dust and mingled male voices.
When we meet in America, Abdul-Kareem has just returned from
his frst visit home in almost ten years. He tells me nothing about his trip
and I do not press him for details.
I am curiously indifferent.
Afghanistan never comes up in our conversations.
Abdul-Kareem spent some time in Europe, then attended private
school in the United States. He speaks English perfectly.
Apart from his appearance, there is little evidence of any real for-
eignness about him. We never discuss Judaism, Islam, or the role of
women. It will be a long time before I learn anything about the history
of his country or about its religious and tribal culture.
For now we share more bohemian interests: the new Italian and
French cinema. Vittorio De Sicas The Bicycle Thief and Two Women.
Federico Fellinis La Strada, Nights of Cabiria, and La Dolce Vita are
quasi-religious experiences for us.
We adore Giulietta Masina, Sophia Loren, Marcello Mastroianni,
and Anna Magnani. After seeing Franois Truffauts The 400 Blows and
Jean-Luc Godards Breathless, we talk of nothing else. The Swedish di-
rector Ingmar Bergman is a fast-rising god to us.
Somehow life seems more romantic and certainly more serious in
black and white and in a foreign language. The actors, especially the in-
tercontinentals, Anthony Quinn, Ingrid Bergman, and Irene Papas, seem
sexier and more important with their tragic outlooks on life.
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, . 5
We agree: Most American actors seem far too optimistic and naive.
The movies all have happy endings; we are far too unconventional and
too pretentious to believe in them.
I make an exception for Marlon Brando (The Wild One, On the
Waterfront) and James Dean (Rebel Without a Cause and East of Eden).
When we see Satyajit Rays Apu Trilogy (Pather Panchali, Apara-
jito, and Apur Sansar), Abdul-Kareem is uncommonly quiet. These flms
about the life of the poor in India speak to him in another way. India is
closer to home. The on-screen, on-the-wheel-of-life suffering is endless,
irredeemable, yet the people maintain enormous dignity.
This is who we think we are: flm buffs, culture vultures, artists,
intellectuals, bohemians. Abdul-Kareem decides that he will be a flm
and theater director. He suggests that I write scripts, stories, and novels
upon which hell base his flms. Or, he says, maybe I should act in the
productions: Thats what you once wanted to do, isnt it? Now youll
have your chance.
This sounds both unrealistic and delightful. It appeals to my vanity.
We also talk endlessly about Camus, Sartre, Dostoevsky, Strindberg,
Ibsen, and Proust. We listen to jazz, ragtime, opera, show tunes, doo-
wop, rock n roll, and the blues.
We fancy ourselves existentialists, twin souls spinning in space with-
out moorings, except in each other. Neither of us is Christian. We are
both somewhat exotic in America. Together we are a trendy item on
a campus where many students party in the Caribbean during winter
break and spend summers at family homes in France or Italy.
As for me, I must succeed academically or I will lose my scholarship.
I am always studying: in the coffee shop, in my room, on the lawn, in the
library, even in class. Abdul-Kareem and I read side by side in the school
cafeteria or at the diner down the road, where we enjoy greasy hamburg-
ers smothered in fried onions.
We spend hours talking animatedly to each other, unaware of the
world around us.
Abdul-Kareem is the frst man with whom I sleep. The earth does
not shudder beneath me, and I do not see God, but I still have to marry
him.
I am a good Jewish woman and as such am not supposed to sleep
with a man before marriage. But now that I have broken this rule, we
must marry. These are the rules. The die is cast.
Abdul-Kareem and I live together in series of small furnished apart-
ments in New York City during our winter and summer breaks.
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