Princess: Stepping Out of the Shadows, стр. 14
I admit that I do not desire to see Medina, Ali’s daughter, who, as I mentioned, has already stolen my mother’s photo once. She was later diagnosed as having a condition known as bipolar, which I hear from my sister Sara creates epic dramas in my brother’s home.
Regrettably, my son Abdullah, his wife and two children are also travelling. This means his daughter, Little Sultana, who is soon to be twelve years old, will not be a part of this gathering. She knows more about her grandfather’s collection than any family member and would be the ideal guide to give a presentation of the most interesting pieces. Alas, that is not to be.
Over the years Mother’s eleven children have expanded into an enormous family, for when we count the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of our parents, we reach the large number of seventy-three immediate family members. My mother did not live to see or embrace any of her grandchildren, and for that I am particularly sad, for no one loved children with the intensity of our mother. How happy she would have been to be surrounded by all, reigning as the matriarch of our family gatherings. My mother is never far from my thoughts on such occasions.
My daughters and I hurry to wait at the doorway in the spacious room where Kareem has housed his artifacts. Here we will greet my sisters and nieces. Of my sisters, only Sara has seen my husband’s antique collection, which Kareem is justly proud of.
As we patiently await the arrival of our guests, suddenly we are encircled by a flurry of activity and joyful laughter.
Dunia is the first to brush against me. ‘Sultana, love! I have missed you!’ Her large brown eyes are sparkling and her voice indicates a great affection that I know she is incapable of feeling; she dips her head without smiling. I have not seen my sister in nearly a year due to our conflicting schedules and I am not surprised to see that her face is even more youthful than her daughters’, who are in their prime and beautiful. Sara had forewarned me that Dunia had spent the past four months in Switzerland undergoing various plastic surgery procedures. With this knowledge, I experience no shock in seeing the ageing Dunia without a single wrinkle, despite the fact she is ten years older than me. But I am taken aback by the appearance of my sister’s lips. Dunia has had them pumped as big as possible and the result is painfully comic! When she leans down to kiss me on my forehead and cheeks, it feels as though a damp sponge ball is brushing against my face.
I am panicked, wondering how I might compliment her appearance, most particularly her lips, but I say nothing because Maha speaks for me. My daughter cannot restrain herself and yelps like a surprised puppy: ‘Auntie! You look different! What happened?’
Dunia’s eyes flash in anger, but she holds her irritation. ‘Darling, I am the same as the day I was born. You have neglected me for so long that you do not remember your auntie. For shame, Maha.’
My daughter bites into her own lips as she stifles a snicker. I pinch her on her back, reminding her to heed proper manners.
In the past there would have been a danger of Maha pulling on those lips and making a joke of them, but thankfully over the years my daughter has learned to guard her tongue more carefully. Feeling my warning, her reply is restrained.
‘Of course, Auntie. I have been absent far too long. I am sorry.’
The scene evokes a forgotten memory. The year before, Sara had told me that Dunia was attracted to the look presented by Angelina Jolie. My sister was desperate to be as beautiful as the famous Hollywood actress, however it is a goal difficult for most women of the world. Ms Jolie was born with her juicy lips, which means they look natural despite their size. My sister’s abundance of injections now cries out for a surgical reduction. Dunia’s small frame does not support over-sized features.
I question how my sister succeeds in talking or eating normally with those huge lips. To satisfy my curiosity, I make a decision to observe Dunia when we take afternoon tea later in the day.
Of all my sisters, Dunia is the one most obsessed with maintaining a youthful appearance and trim body. Her latest attempt took my mind back many years, to a day when I was still a child and Nura was much like our surrogate mother. Nura and Sara, my mother always said, were the most kindhearted of her daughters, and now as an adult I can say she knew her daughters well.
My vision brought Nura back to life, for it was from her that I learned poor Dunia was cursed with unhealthy obsessions. While nine of Mother’s daughters had strong appetites, Dunia ate with extreme caution, counting her bites and never allowing more than five to enter her mouth at each mealtime. Once I teased Dunia about her eating habits, laughing and saying, ‘My sister, you are going to disappear you are so skinny. Can you not count over five? Or are you missing teeth and cannot chew?’ I cringe now when I recall my cruel taunts at Dunia’s discomfort. That’s when elder sister Nura pulled me aside.
‘Sultana, be kind to your sister,’ she said. ‘She was