She met Maruf, the gardener, and Kamal, the cleaner who took care of the shared swimming pool, and the men who tended the tennis courts, the lake, the fountains and the hedgerows. At 8:00am each day the pristine compound was filled with the drone of trimmers and leaf-blowers, after which silence returned and nothing stirred.
The neighbourhood looked like a magazine brochure, its plants and emerald lawns meticulously weeded and watered. But it felt oddly artificial. Perhaps it was the sheer brightness of the colours, as though a TV image had been turned up too high, or the knowledge that beneath the thin layer of topsoil there was nothing but sand and rock. The immaculate swathes of grass were faintly absurd, laid across the natural landscape like a nylon carpet, dressing for doll houses.
Each day grew incrementally hotter. Soon, Lea realised, there would be nothing to do except sit in air-conditioned shadows, hiding from the summer temperatures. On days when a breeze stirred, the horizon was dotted with red and yellow hang-gliders, sawing down through the zephyrs toward the shore.
The sparkling swimming pools left behind a tracery of neon waves when she shut her eyes, like the remnants of a dream. Beyond these azure rectangles were security fences and ID cards that needed to be shown, groundsmen standing bored at the edge of the lake, guards with their mirrors on poles to check for bombs, maids clearing untouched breakfasts from patio tables. The changes in security status were posted without explanation on the compound’s corner-store message board, and were just as mysteriously retracted.
In the house, everything was calm and ordered.
Cara had set up a dock for her iPod, and now that Lea was alone she played her recording of Maria Callas in Lucia di Lammermoor. Sopranos had the power to still her restless energy and bring shape to her thoughts. Roy had no response to music at all, beyond a few terrible old rock albums that reminded him of his teenaged years, and Cara fled the room whenever an aria started.
Lea looked out of the window, sipping tea from her ginger cat mug, and saw a woman standing on the front path. She was clearly waiting to be noticed and greeted, rather than walking up and ringing the doorbell. She was squat and rotund, Anglo-Indian, in a cornflower blue smock over beige slacks, a helmet of mouse-coloured hair that might have been a sheitel and too much shiny coral lipstick. Turning down the music, Lea opened the front door and stepped out.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Hello there,’ the woman called in theatrical surprise, ‘I was just seeing if anyone had moved in and well, there you are.’ She held out a hand. ‘I’m Rosemary Busabi, it sounds like busy bee doesn’t it, and I suppose that’s what I am.’ She gave a little squeak of a laugh. At first Lea thought Mrs Busabi had overdone the foundation on her cheeks, but there was a smell of baking about her, and she realised her neighbour was covered in flour. Mrs Busabi pointed behind her. ‘I’m diagonally opposite. I teach at the primary. Are you here with little ones?’
There was clearly no way of avoiding a coffee morning, so Lea invited her in. Mrs Busabi peered and prodded and checked everything she saw, blatantly pricing and comparing the furnishings. She had a middle-England accent tempered with something that hinted at a more exotic past, probably time passed in India. ‘I said to Harji, that’s my husband, someone’s moving into Tom and Sally Chalmers’ old place but he said surely not so soon, he hadn’t heard anything about it.’
Lea knew nothing about the history of the property. It appeared to be no more than two or three years old. ‘So there was someone here before?’ she asked. She was about to start making tea, but Lastri insisted on taking over, so she led Mrs Busabi to the lounge.
‘Didn’t your husband tell you? Tom was the original compound manager. He was here right from the start. I was good friends with his wife for a time. He had this place for about six years. I know what you’re thinking; the villa looks brand new, but it’s not. It’s the climate, you see. Things don’t age, they just get a bit dusty. Even the sandstorms don’t do much damage because we clean everything after they’ve passed, so it’s all spic and span again. You just have to keep a broom handy and remember to refrigerate your perishables. Because terrible things can happen if you don’t refrigerate your perishables.’
‘So, when did the Chalmers leave?’ Lea awkwardly sat back as Lastri served coffee and pastries.
‘Tom died about two months ago. The silliest accident. For some unearthly reason he decided to trim the grass in front of the house—that little patch you’ve got before the edge of the pavement? At night. And he went through a power cable. It turned him quite black and fried off all his hair.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘Oh, he didn’t die here, but in the old Creek Hospital. He was overweight, of course, and had high blood pressure. He was always doing silly things.’ Mrs Busabi took a sip of her tea and didn’t appear to find the taste entirely to her liking. ‘His wife went home to—Sheffield, I think it was. They’d lost their only child, so she didn’t have happy memories of being here.’
‘Why, what happened—’ Lea started to ask, but Mrs Busabi ploughed on.
‘We were very good friends for a time. I do miss her. We used to play cards together. Do you play bridge?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Mr Mansour took over but he hasn’t got the same warmth. He lives in town, a Muslim of course, so he can’t really be expected to understand our little problems.’
‘I met him the day we arrived. He seemed nice.’
‘Oh, everyone’s very nice,’ said Mrs Busabi, absently touching her hair. ‘But I liked India more. The people in Delhi were so friendly, and you couldn’t get better servants. Of course, you had to keep them in line or they would take advantage, inviting their relatives in to sweep your yard, that sort of thing. Where have you come from?’
‘Oh, just London,’ said Lea with an air of apology.
‘So this is your first tour of duty? You don’t usually trail spouse?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Oh, that’s what it’s called. Wives who follow their husbands around.’
Lea felt the need to explain. ‘This is going to be my only tour of duty. Roy’s contract is for two years, and our daughter is fifteen. She’ll be sixteen in September. I’d like to get her into a good college in England. She doesn’t know what she wants to do yet, but she’s very good with technology. I don’t understand half the things she does.’
‘Does she have to do anything? Couldn’t she just do what you do?’
Lea decided she probably wasn’t going to be Mrs Busabi’s new best friend.
‘We don’t have little ones, unfortunately,’ her neighbour continued. ‘I have my children at the school, of course, so it’s like one big lovely family.’ She paused, and it seemed to Lea she had suddenly lost her train of thought. ‘Your husband, what have they put him on?’
‘His background is in architectural engineering,’ Lea explained. ‘These days something like a concrete pillar isn’t just a support anymore, it’s a conduit for electronics and sensors and all sorts of other stuff. He makes studies of the structural problems.’
‘My husband Harji is the public water projects manager,’ said Mrs Busabi. ‘It’s very demanding work. There’s a fire-and-water fountain at the centre of the Persiana park where all the jets are meant to rotate and light up to music every fifteen minutes, and it doesn’t work properly. It’s all he ever talks about.’ There was a hint of desperation in her voice.
‘What about you?’ Lea asked. ‘What do you do?’
Mrs Busabi looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘In your spare time.’
‘My dear, I never have a moment to call my own, there are so many clubs and charities and societies. Cookery classes and reading groups and makeover evenings, all sorts of lovely things. A lot of them are run by our younger ladies, so I don’t tend to go to those.’ Lea studied her neighbour. Mrs Busabi couldn’t have been more than forty. ‘I’m sure the Americans will try to enlist you.’ She soun
ded disapproving.
‘The Americans?’
‘Your next door neighbours. Very friendly. They’ve been away visiting her family in Ohio. You won’t have to seek them out, they’re bound to come and find you.’
‘My husband is American. From New York.’
‘Oh, but that doesn’t really count, does it? New York is so much more…’ The thought trailed off.
‘These clubs.’ Lea tried to come up with a way of framing her question so that it wouldn’t offend. ‘Are they just for the wives?’
‘Mostly. The men are all at work. But there are the dances and dinners at the golf club, the husbands usually attend those if they’re not too busy. We have shopping expeditions, and the children have their computer club, and outings to the desert. I take the little ones on nature rambles with Dr Vance, he’s the compound’s GP, such a lovely man. You’re not planning to work yourself, are you?’
‘I’m hoping to,’ Lea said, almost feeling guilty. ‘I wrote for a magazine in London. I’m looking for freelance assignments. Articles and so on.’
‘How marvellous,’ said Mrs Busabi unenthusiastically. ‘You must submit something to our local residents’ newspaper. We’re always looking for new recipes and home decorating ideas. Well, I must be getting along. It’s baking day. We’ll have to enrol you in our cookery classes.’ She shone a happy smile in Lea’s direction. ‘I absolutely insist you become a member of the Dream Ranches Pastry Club. And we should get your daughter started as soon as possible. Future housewives!’
Chapter Six
The Nasty Old Man
‘I DON’T SUPPOSE they’re all like her,’ Lea told Roy as they sat together for a dinner of sea bass in fennel. ‘God, they can’t be.’
‘Sounds like she was just being friendly,’ said Roy. ‘She’s probably used to a certain kind of person living here. Where’s Cara?’
‘She called to say she’d be late. Some of the girls in her class are planning to go swimming at sunset on one of the public beaches near the Palm Jebel-Ali.’
‘Really? Is that a good idea?’
‘What harm can it do? Her social calendar seems to have suddenly filled up. I had this fantasy that the three of us might get to eat meals together.’
‘Look on the plus side. We have the place to ourselves.’
‘Good point. Give me a kiss.’
He leaned over and raised his hand to her face. ‘Hey,’ she said, looking at the shiny redness on his left arm, ‘you’ve burned yourself.’
He examined the mark. ‘We have to get our hands dirty here. No more sitting behind desks sending emails. I’m out in the field now.’
She savoured the taste of his kiss.
‘So your day,’ he said, reminding her. ‘Mrs Busabi.’
‘I can’t remember her first name, and we’ve got beyond the point where I can comfortably ask her to remind me.’
Roy laughed. His teeth looked white against his new tan. ‘You are so English sometimes.’
‘She’s going to try and recruit me and Cara for the Pastry Club, whatever that is. Actually I feel a bit sorry for her. She’s obviously lonely, stuck at home while Mr Busabi does something demanding with rotating fountains.’
‘Go on, make fun now,’ said Roy, ‘but wait until Dream World is open. You’ll be proudly pointing out that your husband was the one who discovered why the marble walkways were splitting.’
‘Why are they splitting?’
‘Wrong usage. They’re too fine. The Chinese have been buying specialised high-finish marble for the heavy-traffic areas, and it’s not suitable. The water-sprays make everything slippery, and because it’s hard water we’re getting calcification in the natural texture of the marble, which causes it to split. There’s a lot of trial-and-error.’
‘Do you think you’ll make the opening date? It’s only three months away.’
‘It’s not impossible, but there’ll have to be cuts.’ Roy carefully deboned his fish. ‘People don’t realise how much work it takes to keep hotels looking good. Most resorts have teams of marble polishers that work through the night.’
‘I suppose it really is like Oz,’ said Lea. ‘The guests don’t want to see what’s going on behind the curtains. Maybe you can’t transform a country into something entirely different overnight. It’s like the Victorian English in India, passing out in their crinolines and planting rosebushes everywhere, only to watch them die.’
‘Well, the region can’t go back to being a desert populated by nomadic tribes and fishermen. The UAE member-states have ancient alliances; everyone’s watching, anxious to learn from our mistakes. Nobody wants to end up with a string of ugly Vegas-style resorts.’
‘But isn’t that exactly what Dream World is going to be? The British press says they’re ignoring safety precautions and won’t allow the workforce to unionise.’
‘The British press.’ Roy made a sour face. ‘They tell their readers that celebrity footballers are buying luxury holiday homes on the Palm Jumeirah, then run stories about the sewage pipes backing up. Build and destroy. You were a writer, Lea, you know how that works.’
She bristled at his use of the past tense, but it was impossible to be angry with Roy for long. His enthusiasm was so boyish and energetic that it could spread like brush-fire. ‘What will happen if you miss the date?’
‘I guess they’d have to renew my contract, for a start.’
‘You mean we’d be here for more than two years.’ The thought hung between them. ‘Oh, I didn’t tell you—the previous tenant here died in a freak accident. He went through a power line and electrocuted himself.’
Roy did not look up from his partially deboned fish. ‘Really? I didn’t hear about that.’
‘Something happened to his daughter and he went a bit odd. He was gardening at night. Mrs Busabi didn’t tell me the full story.’
‘You certainly got a lot of information out of her, considering you didn’t like her.’
‘You don’t think it’s kind of weird?’
‘What, that someone failed the Darwin test?’
Lea watched as Roy carried on eating.
THE NEXT MORNING, a minor accident brought Lea into contact with Milo. She returned from the mall and was parking the blue Renault when she heard a bump. A red electric scooter had appeared behind her at the kerb. She was sure it hadn’t been there when she left. The old man came out of his house with such speed that she felt sure he must have been watching her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, bending down to check the scooter for damage. ‘It’s just a tiny mark. I can get it out and you won’t be able to see a thing.’
‘Woman driver, eh?’ said the old man, waving a tanned hand at the Renault. ‘Menaces to society, the lot of you.’ He had the kind of German accent she had only ever heard in old British comedy shows. ‘Don’t worry, I’m joking’, he said quickly, seeing embarrassment in her face.
‘You must be Milo.’ Lea remembered Davenport’s description of the retired German engineer who lived across the road. ‘Mr Davenport told me about you.’
‘Well, you can assume that anything James told you was a lie. He’s a company weasel. He has no opinions of his own. So cheerful, so enthusiastic. He can brighten any room just by leaving it.’
Lea stifled a shocked laugh. ‘Listen, would you like to come in for some tea?’
‘Why not? That’s what we do around here, we drink buckets and buckets of tea until it’s time to start hammering the alcohol, which is any time past midday. At my age tea makes me piss like a horse every ten minutes but what the hell, I’ll accept a good strong Arabic coffee if you have it.’
Milo Melnik was small, stocky and sun-creased, with fine white hair and sharp blue eyes that seemed to be searching for signs of rebellion. In his baggy red cardigan and trousers pulled halfway up his chest, he reminded her of Mickey Rooney. Instantly drawn to him, she introduced herself and took him inside.
Lastri obediently appeared with cups and cinnamon date cake
. ‘It’s shop-bought, I’m afraid,’ Lea apologised. ‘Our furniture only just turned up and I’ve been busy unpacking.’
‘At least you got Arabic food,’ he said. ‘Nobody does that here. They spend most of their time setting up little kingdoms and copying the recipes they used to have at home. Have you ever eaten something called Battenburg cake? I’m sure we never had it in Germany. Disgusting. The Americans and Australians are always hosting god-awful barbeques and the English are forever complaining that you can’t get a decent cup of tea.’
‘I won’t be doing that,’ said Lea. ‘I’m interested in Middle Eastern culture. I’d like to get involved, not hide away. Back in London I was a writer.’
‘I thought I recognised a kindred spirit. Please don’t turn into a little housewife like the rest of them. And don’t let them tell you they’ve got nothing better to do. There’s plenty to do. People arrive with good intentions but instead of being useful they spend their days creeping around the malls like ghosts, staring at all the stuff they don’t need. But what do I know, I’m an old man, there’s nothing in the malls for me.’
He seated himself in the kitchen’s only comfortable chair. ‘I was going to visit you yesterday but I saw old Busy-Body Busabi heading over here and thought I’d better stay out of the way. That woman makes my balls ache. Wait until you try her sponge cake, it’s like eating a cushion. How are you settling in?’
‘Everyone seems very nice.’
‘Bullshit, you thought you were making an entry into an earthly paradise, but you’re slowly finding out that you’ve landed in a snakepit.’
Lea laughed. ‘Well, let’s just say I’m not really interested in shopping and taking cookery courses.’
‘Hooray for that. It means we can be friends at least. It may not endear you to the other Stepford Wives, though.’
‘How do you fill your time, Milo?’
‘Haven’t you heard?’ He leaned forward and held his palm against his lips in a theatrical whisper. ‘I’m the nasty old man who frightens the children. I’m the fly in the ointment around here, a German Jew working in an Arab country. They look at me and ask themselves, how did that happen? I tell them it’s simple, I have no roots, I’ve outlived the rest of my family, I go wherever I damn well please and I say the things nobody is supposed to say. We’re all meant to toe the company line, even the retired ones.’
The Sand Men Page 4
