‘All right,’ I said. ‘He’s dead. But if you haven’t discovered what happened to him, what do you think happened to him?’
His eye looked into mine. ‘Have you ever been frightened?’
‘Yes, once,’ I said. ‘In Tanganyika.’
He nodded. ‘Then you’ll understand me when I say no man knows how he’ll react to fear until he’s faced with it. Especially when he’s alone. And David was alone. His Arab crew had deserted him. We found that out later. They panicked.’
‘And you think David did the same?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s a cruel place, the desert. And solitary as hell. Empty too. Even in company the Bedou sing to keep their spirits up.’ It was much what Griffiths had said and it seemed plausible enough. He took my arm and led me back to the carpet. ‘You were telling me about your journey—’
I told him as much as I thought he’d a right to know -about the package Griffiths had brought me and my meeting with Erkhard. But it was Gorde he was really interested in - Gorde and Entwhistle and the fact that the two of them had been together at the locations David had been surveying. It seemed to worry him and he questioned me closely about Gorde’s reactions - what had he said, where was he going when he’d left me there with Entwhistle? And then he asked me what it was that had decided Entwhistle to check David’s survey. ‘He must have known he was risking his life there on that border. What made mm think it was so important?’
I hesitated. He was sitting there, watching me, very still, very tense, and I knew suddenly that this was what the whole interview had been leading up to and that he was deeply concerned. ‘When Entwhistle searched the abandoned truck,’ I said, ‘he found all David’s papers. They included his own survey report and also the report of a much older survey run just before the war. I think it was that report—’
‘Whose report?’ The question was shot at me out of the dark. ‘Was it Henry Farr’s report?’
I stared at him. ‘You know about that?’
‘Of course. Henry sent me a copy of it. He was well aware of my interest in the area. Later we had a talk about it - just before he went into Abyssinia.’
‘But if you knew about it—’ It seemed so incredible. ‘In his letter to me David said he found it in the Company’s files. You never told him about it?’
‘No.’
‘Why ever not? You must have known how he felt about Saraifa, his desperate urge to—’
‘He was employed by the Company - by Erkhard.’ His voice was taut and hard, a note almost of hostility.
‘But… I don’t understand, ‘I said.‘All these years… . And Khalid says you’re drilling to the south of the oasis. That’s at least forty miles from David’s locations.’
‘Exactly. Just about as far from the Hadd border as it’s possible to get and still be in Saraifa.’ He got to his feet and began pacing up and down, seeking relief in movement from the nervous tension that I now realized had existed inside him from the first moment of our meeting. ‘It’s not easy to explain. You don’t understand the situation.’ He stopped suddenly and faced me. ‘For twenty years I’ve had to sit on this, convinced that my theory was right, that the oil-bearing strata continued from the Gulf down into Saraifa, between the Empty Quarter and the mountains you can see there to the east.’ His voice was sharp and bitter with frustration. ‘I had to find some way—’ He paused, standing there over me, and he was silent a long time as though reaching for a decision. Finally he said, ‘You know so much… . You may as well know the rest. Erkhard’s coming here tomorrow, flying down from Sharjah. He’s under pressure as I think you’ll have guessed from your conversation with Philip Gorde. With God’s help I’ll get him to sign the concession, and once the Company’s involved—’ He turned and resumed his pacing. ‘There was no other way. No company would sign a concession with Saraifa if they knew it involved drilling on the Hadd-Saraifa border. No company would dare. But once they’re committed… . ‘ He beat his fist against the palm of his hand.
I
spasmodic fighting on the border. The Emir, you see, was determined to grab any oil there was for himself. And when we finally sent in troops to keep the peace, it was too late for me to do anything about it. The concession had lapsed. Philip Gorde had gone home sick and Erkhard had taker, over. Erkhard would have dealt with the Emir or anybody else. He’d no feeling for Saraifa the way Philip had.’ He turned abruptly and shouted for Yousif. And then, looking at me very hard, he said, ‘You’ve come at a strange moment, Grant, and I’ve told you things I’ve told no other man. I’ve had to, or you’d have caused more trouble. By the mere fact of coming out here… . ‘ He hesitated and I knew he was thinking of Gorde. ‘What did Philip say, was he surprised when he discovered where I was drilling?’
‘I don’t think he knows,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t even sure you were drilling.’
‘Oh, he knows. A plane passed over the rig this afternoon. I thought for a moment it must be Erkhard arriving a day early, but when it circled and turned away I began to wonder.’ He was looking out into the desert again and his face showed the strain he was under. ‘I could have wished it had been anyone but Philip Gorde. He’s the only man in the whole Company who knows enough to guess what I’m up to. But there’s nothing I can do about it now Yousif had appeared and he held out his hand to me ‘You’re a lawyer, Grant. You’ve been involved in our affairs for a long time. I rely on you not to talk.’ He held my hand gripped in his. ‘We have two enemies here in Saraifa -the Emir and the Sands.’ He gestured towards the white expanse of the dunes and added softly, ‘Tomorrow, with God’s help, I’ll lay the foundation of victory over them both.’ It was said with great intensity, his eye fixed on my face.
I left him then, standing alone as I had found him on that rooftop, a strange, almost fanatical figure against the backcloth of endless desert. Even when I got back to my turret room, the memory of him was so clear in my mind that I felt he was still with me. But I was too exhausted to think clearly about that extraordinary meeting. I fell asleep and dreamed instead of women crying over children dead of thirst.
I woke in the small hours to the reality of their cries, a queer, keening sound coming up from the square below. The palace, too, was alive with voices, and though they were muffled by distance and the thickness of the walls, I caught the vibrant note of disaster.
It was quite chill as I flung off my blanket and went to the embrasure. The village square was ghostly pale in moonlight, empty save for a little group immediately below me, a dozen women and some children huddled like rags around the dead body of a man. He had been shot in the face and he wasn’t a pretty sight there in the moonlight. Nearby a camel’ lay in a pool of blood.
It was just after four by my watch and already the sky was paling in the east. I put on my shoes and went down into the courtyard. The place was in an uproar, fires smoking and men standing in little groups, all talking at once. The nearest fell silent as they saw me and the word Nasrani passed from mouth to mouth, a whisper of fear, perhaps of hate. I beat a hasty retreat to the seclusion of my turret cell.
Sleep was impossible after that and I sat huddled in my blanket and watched the dawn break over the Jebel mountains, the grey light of it creeping across the palm tops, heralded by the brazen sound of an ass braying. The keening ceased and when I went to the window embrasure there was no sign of the dead man and the camel’s carcase had gone. It might have been a bad dream, for as daylight flooded the square it was full of the sound of children and their carefree laughter.
There was a shireeya, or open waterhole, a short distance from the tower and young Arab girls were driving goats towards it. There were boys there, too, with their asses, filling goat-skin bags and dripping a dark trail of the precious fluid as they took it to houses in the village.
Skinny, undersized fowl pecked in the dirt; a shapeless bundle of womanhood passed, her face hideously concealed by the black mask of the burqa. And when the sun lifted its glaring face above the distant
line of the mountains, the palms, the sand, the mud houses were all miraculously suffused with colour, as though I were looking at the scene through rose-tinted glasses. Exhausted, I lay down again and was instantly asleep.
I woke to the cry of ‘Gahwa’ and a barefoot attendant pouring coffee for me, his gun slung across his back, the brass of his cartridge belt gleaming in the light from the embrasure. It was eight-thirty and the flies crawled over the dates he left for my breakfast.
I ate the dates slowly, for time hung heavy on my hands and I didn’t dare venture out alone after what had happened. My eyes felt tired, my body lethargic. My mind wandered in weary circles as the heat of the desert grew in intensity, invading the room. It was almost eleven when Khalid came for me. A brief salaam, a polite hope that I’d slept well, and then he said, ‘My father holds a majlis. He desires your presence, sir.’ His face looked grave and the eyes, deep-sunk and shadowed, spoke of a sleepless night. The Emir of Hadd has sent one of his sheikhs to make demand for a new border.’ His voice sounded weary, too.
‘What happened last night?’ I asked. ‘There were women crying and a dead body in the square.’
They waited in ambush by the fourteenth well. Mahommed bin Rashid is dead and two of his men also. Three are wounded. Come! My father waits for you.’
I asked him if I could wash first, but he said there was no time. ‘You must explain now please to the Emir’s representative why you and Meester Entwhistle are on the border.’ And then urgently: Tell Sheikh Abdullah there is no oil there.’
‘I’m not a geologist.’
‘He don’t know that. He thinks you work for the Oil Company.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ I spoke sharply, irritable with lack of sleep. ‘I’m a lawyer, and all I’m interested in is what happened to David Whitaker.’
His dark eyes stared at me hard. ‘Is better you don’t talk about David at this meeting,’ he said quietly.
‘Why?’ Angry and tired, I didn’t stop to think what I was saying. ‘Because your father sent some of his bodyguard to arrest him?’
‘You saw Haj Whitaker last night. You know why they were sent. He was on the Hadd border against my father’s orders.’
‘Against Whitaker’s orders, too, I gather.’
‘Yess. If he had been a Muslim instead of a Nasrani—’ He gave a little shrug. ‘The Prophet has taught us that the word of the father is as a law and that the son must obey.’ And he added, ‘My father is wishing to avoid trouble. He does not believe that a few miles of desert sand is worth righting for.’
‘And you do?’
Again the little shrug. ‘My father is an old man and he has known Haj Whitaker many years now. He is guided by him in these matters. And I - I also am not a geologist.’
‘Who did your father send with the soldiers?’ I asked. ‘Was it you?’
‘No. Mahommed bin Rashid.’ He turned abruptly. ‘Come, please. My father is waiting.’ And as I followed him down the turret stairs, he said over his shoulder, ‘Please. You will not speak of David.’ He said it fiercely, with great urgency.
He led me through passages that were cool in semi-darkness and up to a rooftop by another staircase. The majlis, or audience, was being held in an open room with arches that looked out across the rooftops to the oasis. Sheikh Makhmud didn’t rise to greet me. His face looked tired and strained, sullen with anger. He was also, I think, a little frightened. Beside him sat the representative of Hadd, a bearded, sly-eyed, powerfully-built man with an elaborately-embroidered cloak and a headdress that was like a turban of many colours.
Sheikh Makhmud motioned me to sit facing him. I was thus in the position of the accused facing a court, for all the notables were there, seated cross-legged and grave on silken cushions ranged round the inner walls of that airy room. On a carpet in the centre were bowls of camel milk and tinned pears. Nobody touched them except the flies. The atmosphere was tense, almost electric.
The situation was distinctly unpleasant for it was obvious as soon as Sheikh Makhmud began to question me in halting English that he regarded me as responsible for the situation that had developed. Entwhistle’s absence didn’t help and though I answered the questions truthfully, I could see from Sheikh Abdullah’s manner that he didn’t believe me. He listened to the translation with a lack of interest that he didn’t bother to conceal.
In the end I lost my temper with him. I scrambled to my feet and standing over the man, delivered myself of the sort of broadside I occasionally indulged in in the courts. My action might have been dictated by expediency, for attack was undoubtedly the best method of defence. But, in fact, my nerves were on edge. ‘Your men attacked us without warning and without cause,’ I shouted at him. And I described how the soft-nosed bullet had slammed into the bonnet of the Land-Rover, how the fusillade of shots had raised spurts of sand all around us. He looked suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Only a few years ago,’ I said, ‘my country had to send troops here to keep the peace. Now you break it again. Why? What explanation do you wish me to give when I return to Bahrain?’
My words translated, the crafty eyes slid from my face to the assembled men and he licked his lips as though suddenly uncertain of himself. ‘You have no answer,’ I said, and with that I gave Sheikh Makhmud a quick bow and made my exit. I couldn’t go far, for armed retainers barred the staircase leading down from the roof. But I had made my point and felt better for it, even though I was now forced to remain out in the full glare of the sun. I sat myself down on the oven-lid heat of the mud parapet and pretended to be absorbed in watching a camel caravan being loaded at a huddle of barastis close by the date gardens. Behind me I could hear the guttural sound of their talk as they continued to deliberate.
Coffee was served and Khalid came over and joined me. ‘Is no good,’ he said. ‘The Emir listens to Cairo Radio and he believes he has powerful friends. It has made him bold. Also he has many new rifles. They have come up from the Yemen, I think. From the coast also.‘And he added, ‘Only if we have oil here in Saraifa will your people give us their full support. We know that.’
‘Mr Erkhard is seeing Colonel Whitaker today,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘My father will not make a decision until he hears from Haj Whitaker. He is full of hope.’
‘And you?’ I asked, for the way he said it suggested he didn’t share his father’s optimism.
He.shrugged. ‘1 also hope, but Haj Whitaker is old, and he is tired and sick.’
‘Sick?’
‘Sick here.’ And he touched his heart.
I asked him then what exactly Sheikh Abdullah was demanding. ‘A new border,’ he said and drew it for me in the sand of the rooftop floor with the toe of his sandalled foot. It meant that all the area David had surveyed would belong to Hadd.
‘And if your father refuses?’
Again that fatalistic shrug. Then Sheikh Abdullah say they will destroy another falaj, and another and another, until we have no water for the dates, no water for our beasts, none for ourselves even. We die then of thirst and starvation.’ He was staring out across the oasis. ‘I am young yet. I had thought to rebuild the falajes, one by one, until Saraifa is like a garden again and the desert at bay. That is my dream.’
‘And David’s, too.’
‘Yes, it is the dream we share since we first hunt the gazelle together.’ His eyes had a faraway look, his voice sad with the loss of that dream. His father called to him and he finished his coffee and went back to his place. The conference was resumed, and looking at the faces of the men gathered in that room, I knew he was right. They were in no mood to fight and if Whitaker didn’t save them then they would accept it as the will of Allah and agree to the Emir’s demands.
The camel caravan down by the palm-tree fringe finished loading. I watched the heavily-laden beasts move off through the date gardens, headed north into the desert. The whole oasis shimmered in the heat, and beyond it stretched the sands, a golden sea thrusting yellow drifts amongst the palms. The sun climbed the s
ky. The heat became unbearable, the talk spasmodic, and Sheikh Abdullah sat there, his heavy eyelids drooping, not saying anything, just waiting.
I was half asleep when I saw the dust trail of the vehicle. It was coming through the date gardens from the south, driven fast, and when it emerged into the open I saw it was a Land-Rover packed with Arabs, all shouting and waving their guns in a frenzy of excitement. And as it reached the outskirts of the village they began firing into the air.
A few minutes later Yousif burst through the retainers standing at the head of the stairs. He went straight up to Sheikh Makhmud, interrupting the deliberations with that extraordinary lack of respect that seems a contradiction almost of the feudalism of the Bedou world. He was excited and Arabic words poured from him in a flood as he handed the Sheikh a folded slip of paper.
As soon as Sheikh Makhmud had read it his whole manner changed. His eyes lit up. He became re-vitalized, a man suddenly in command of the situation. He said a few words, speaking softly and with great control. The name of Allah was repeatedly mentioned, presumably in praise. And then he rose to his feet. The effect was remarkable.
The place was suddenly in an uproar, everybody on their feet and all talking at once. There was a general movement towards the stairs and Sheikh Makhmud swept out ahead of his elders, moving fast and with a light, soundless tread, so that he seemed to flow like water from the rooftop.
Khalid followed him, the others crowding after them, and in a moment there was only myself and the Emir’s representative left. He looked unhappy, his arrogance undermined by this development which had clearly affected his embassy. I smiled at him, waving him to the staircase ahead of me, and was amused at the childish way he turned his back on me in a huff.
From the rooftop I could see men running. The news seemed to have spread round the oasis in a flash. And south, beyond the palms, another dust trail moved across the desert. By the time I had found my way down to the great courtyard the whole male population of Saraifa seemed gathered there. And when the Land-Rover, driven by Colonel Whitaker himself, turned slowly through the gateway, forcing a passage through the crush to where Sheikh Makhmud stood waiting, a great shout went up: Haji! Haji! In the passenger seat beside Whitaker sat Erkhard, as cool and neat and spotless as when I had seen him last.
The Doomed Oasis Page 19
