“He’ll see you now.”

I looked up. The thin, hawk-faced man was peering at me over his glasses with an unmistakable look of disapproval. The kind of look that was meant to put me in my place. The same look that met me almost everywhere I went in this country, where being young, female and a westerner were three immediate strikes against you. Hawk-Face didn’t like me, didn’t want me in his waiting room. Didn’t even want to deal with me. I could tell. In a way, I felt he was right. Who was I to be sitting in the outer office of the Information Minister, one of the most important members of the Sultan’s government? I was an outsider to begin with. And I had spent almost every day since my arrival doubting my abilities, wondering if I had what it takes.

I knew my youth worked against me. And my inexperience. They went hand-in-hand anyway: youth, inexperience. Nothing to fall back on. Everything to prove. Only six months out of journalism school. I felt like an incompetent fool, an imposter.

But I’d be damned if I’d let Hawk-Face know that. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He was still staring at me, trying to intimidate me. I stood up and walked over, answering his condescending gaze with a wide smile.

“Thank you very much,” I said, nodding briskly as I walked past his desk. I heard him sniff reproachfully. I ignored it, behaving as professionally as possible.

“Fake it, Bianca,” I told myself. “Fake it ‘til you make it.”

The doors behind the receptionist’s desk parted, almost magically, as I approached. I walked through them and found myself in a large, lush office. The carpet was thick and expensive, the furniture dark, the walls covered with impressive hangings and artwork. The room had a certain warmth to it, however, thanks to the gorgeous sunlight streaming through the windows and the abundance of indoor greenery. It took me a while to figure out that there was in fact another human being in the room. He was off to my left with his back to me, tending to one of the plants conspicuously perched on the bookshelf that ran along the opposite wall. He didn’t turn to face me, merely directed me to take a seat in front of his desk.

I obeyed, sitting down in a leather chair and crossing my legs. He finally walked over and sat on the edge of his desk. He was a handsome man in his late 30s, with an intelligent face and dark, wavy hair. He smiled slightly, finally making eye contact. He smiled more with his eyes than with his mouth, which I found unnerving. Still, I smiled back, waiting.

“Thanks for coming in Miss Montgomery,” he began briskly. “Here’s your article. Go ahead and run it.”

He handed me a copy of my recently submitted story. I stared at it; or what was left of it. Several paragraphs had been blotted out completely with a black marker. Censored. Shit. I swallowed hard, pushing my urge to protest back down my throat.

I pictured myself back in ethics class, embroiled in one of those never-ending academic discussions about freedom of the press. What grandiose, self-congratulating fools we all were. How little we knew about the real world. Sure, it rankled me to have to sit here, smiling politely at this power-hungry bureaucrat with his contemptuous smile. But what were my options, really? I was under his thumb and we both knew it.

“Thank you, minister,” was all I could muster.

He smiled again, this time more broadly. He really was quite handsome, in a roguish kind of way. His lips were full and sensuous, his eyes sharp, shrewd. He crossed his arms in front of him, flexing the muscles in his forearms. He was wearing shirt-sleeves, rolled up. Very western businessman-like. He obviously worked out and liked to show off the results. I glanced around the office and saw his white dish-dasha on a hanger behind the door. Must keep it handy for the local officials, I surmised. Dress for your audience.

He spoke again, interrupting my thoughts.

“I’ve been speaking with your editor,” he began.

Uh-oh. I braced myself.

“I’d like to offer you an exclusive,” he continued. His English was quite good. I wondered where he was schooled. Not here, certainly.

“An exclusive?” I replied. “What about?”

He smiled again, this time more genuinely.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, arching an eyebrow at me. “This request comes directly from the Sultan.”

“The Sultan?” I was floored.

“Yes. As you know, he recently brought his new wife here. The people don’t know her and he’d like to have some favourable articles appear, to introduce her to his subjects.”

“Favourable articles?” I realized I was just repeating what he was telling me. His mouth tightened for a brief moment before he responded.

“You’ll be given several interviews. Write about her background, her interests. As a way of making her more familiar, you see.”

“You want me to make her familiar,” I repeated, not knowing what else to say. The minister nodded briskly.

“The Sultan is very protective of his wife. But she isn’t from here and I’m sure you are well aware of how xenophobic the people can be.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that.” I shifted in my chair. “Is that why you chose me?”

“More or less,” he replied, becoming impatient. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll find you have some things in common. Work some magic.”

He broke eye contact with me and stood up abruptly, signalling that he was done with me. I arose immediately, responding almost unconsciously to his body language. How hard it was to go against convention in this place. Silently, I clenched my teeth. I wondered what she would be like. Scary? Intimidating? Resentful? I had no idea what to expect.

He didn’t even say goodbye, merely picked up a stack of papers and turned away from me, his mind already occupied with the next issue on his agenda. I returned to the outer chamber where the disapproving secretary was waiting with a list of times and dates for the interviews.

“Good day, Miss Montgomery,” Hawk-Face sniffed as I retreated.

Once outside in the warm sunshine, I covered my head, as was the custom here. Then I put on my sunglasses and glanced at the paper in my hand. Tomorrow was the first interview. A knot began to form in my stomach as I thought about meeting the Sultan’s wife for the first time. I wasn’t ready. I had homework to do, lots of homework. Stuffing the paper into my shoulder bag, I hurried back to the office, my mind already churning with questions.