The Doomed Oasis

by Innes, Hammond;

  “And David’s, too.”

  “Yes, it is the dream we share since we first hunt the gazelle together.” His eyes had a far-away 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 sky. 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 revitalized, 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 his 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 were 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 greetings over, the Company’s General Manager was taken into the palace. I had a glimpse of Whitaker’s face as he walked beside Sheikh Makhmud, towering over him and all the Arabs around him. He wasn’t smiling and yet it expressed his elation—a secret, almost violent emotion. Twenty years was a long time, and this the culmination of his life, the moment of victory. It seemed a pity David couldn’t be here to share it.

  Nobody took any notice of me now. I walked out through the main gate, down into the shade of the palms, and sat by the steaming waters of the shireeya. Gorde, Whitaker, Erkhard, Entwhistle … those three women … My brain reeled with the heat. Unable to fix any pattern to my thoughts, I returned finally to my turret room. It was cooler there, the shadowed interior peaceful, and I took my siesta to the lazy buzzing of flies, the distant murmur of people wild with joy.

  I must have slept heavily, for when I woke the sun was low and there was a little pile of freshly laundered clothes beside me—a tropical suit, shirt, tie, pants, socks. There was also a note from Whitaker: The concession is signed and there is a-feast to celebrate. I thought you might like a change of clothes. Yousif will call for you at sunset.

  As soon as I started to put them on I knew the clothes weren’t his, for he was much taller and these fitted me reasonably well. They were obviously David’s, and it seemed to me strange that I should be attending this feast in his clothes.

  The acrid smell of wood smoke permeated the room, and the hubbub of sound from the village square drew me to the embrasure. The whole beaten expanse was full of people and cooking-fires. The carcasses of sheep and goats hung by their hind legs, their slashed throats dripping blood into bowls. Chickens were being prepared, and blackened pots of rice simmered over the fires. Half Saraifa was in the square, and there was a great coming and going of the Sheikh’s armed retainers, who carried the cooked dishes into the palace. The sun sank and the sky blazed red for an instant and then died to purples and light greens.

  “You come now, sir, please.”

  Yousif stood at the head of the stairway, almost unrecognizable in clean clothes and spotless turban, a curved khanjar knife gleaming silver at his waist. He took me down to a central courtyard that I hadn’t seen before. It was packed with retainers, the silver and brass of guns and cartridges gleaming in the shadows. The Sheikh and his guests were already, gathered in the long, colonnaded room on the far side, and dishes lay in lines in the dust.

  Khalid came forward to greet me. He was beautifully clad in long robes of finest cashmere, a brown cloak gold-embroidered, and his eyes, newly made-up with kohl, looking enormous, his beard shining and silky with some scented lotion. Whitaker was seated on one side of Sheikh Makhmud, Erkhard on the other. And next to Whitaker sat Sheikh Abdullah of Hadd. “You sit with me,” Khalid said.

  As I passed Erkhard, he looked up. “Grant!” I couldn’t help being amused at his surprise. “They told me in Sharjah that you’d left with Gorde, but I didn’t expect to see you here.” He frowned. “Where is Gorde, do you know?”

  “I think he flew back to Bahrain.”

  He nodded. “Good.”

  As I took my place beside Khalid, retainers were already moving amongst the guests with ewers of water. We rinsed our hands, and the first great platters were moved forward on to the rugs. The occasion was very formal. Nobody talked unless the Sheikh himself was talking. The result was that conversation went in disconcerting leaps—one moment bedlam, the next a silence in which the only sound was the coming and going of the retainers in the courtyard.

  The feast was a monstrous, gargantuan affair—mutton, goat’s flesh, young camel, chicken, gazelle. The platters came on and on and kept on coming, the meat nestled on piled-up heaps of rice, eggs floating in a spiced gravy like little yellow balls, omelettes piled in tiers, flat and leathery like griddle cakes, flat disks of bread, liquid butter and cheese. Half the dishes never got beyond the colonnades, but remained outside in the dust, enough to feed an army. Like all Bedouin feasts, it was intended as a meal for the Sheikh’s bodyguard, who were waiting on us, for all the palace retainers, and finally for the people of Saraifa themselves so that they would all feel they had shared in the event.

  The cooking was rough desert cooking, the meat overdone and swimming in fat, the dishes lukewarm at best. But I was so damned hungry I scarcely thought about what I was eating. Khalid kept plying me with delicacies—the tongue of gazelle, I remember, and something that I popped into my mouth and swallowed whole, hoping it wasn’t what I thought it was. An old man sat in a corner playing intermittently on what I can only describe as a lute. The palace poet, I was told. Later he would unburden himself of a poem in praise of the guests and of the occasion. “It will be a long poem,” Khalid said and his eyes smiled whilst his face remained quite serious. There was a sudden silence and into it the man next to me tossed a belch of impressive loudness. There was a great deal of belching. It was
a mark of appreciation, and before we were halfway through the meal I found myself doing the same, so quickly and easily does one fall into other people’s conventions. Also my stomach was by then very full.

  Outside in the courtyard Sheikh Makhmud’s falconers paraded their birds. He was very proud of his falcons, and, seeing them, talons gripped around wooden perches spiked into the sand or around the leather-gauntleted arms of their keepers, I found myself glancing at Whitaker, noticing the same quick, predatory look, the same sharp, beaky features. Our eyes met for a moment and it seemed to me that the mood of exhilaration had drained out of him, as though success had a sour taste; or perhaps it was the clothes I was wearing, reminding him of his son.

  The main dishes had all been removed now. Lights were brought, for the sun had set and it was growing dark. They were modern, chromium-plated pressure lamps, and they were hung on nails in the walls, where they hissed and glared and had to be constantly pumped to maintain the pressure. And with the lamps came dishes of every sort of tinned fruit. There was halwa, too. Coffee followed, and at a sign from Sheikh Makhmud the poet moved into the centre. He sat facing the guests and began plucking at his lute, chanting a ballad—the story, Khalid said, of Saraifa’s need of water and Haj Whitaker’s long search for oil. It had the effect of intensifying the mood of excitement that gripped all the Arabs … all except Sheikh Abdullah, who sat staring stonily into space.

  And then suddenly the stillness was shattered by the noise of an aircraft flying low. The ballad-singer faltered, the sound of the lute ceased; the story came abruptly to a halt, unfinished.

  The sound swept in a roar over the palms. I thought I caught a glimpse of a dark shape against the stars, and then the engine died. It was coming in to land. Sheikh Makhmud called to his secretary, and a guard was dispatched to escort the visitors. Everybody was talking at once, and Erkhard leaned across to me and hissed: “Who is it? Do you know?”

  I didn’t answer, but I think he must have guessed, for his eyes were coldly bleak and there was a tightness about his mouth. I looked past him to where Whitaker sat. His face was expressionless, but his body had a stillness that was without repose.

  After what seemed a very long wait Gorde and Otto were escorted into the courtyard.

  It was a strange moment, for Gorde walked straight in on the feast, limping and leaning on his stick, the sweat-stained trilby jammed firmly on his grizzled head, his battered features set in grim lines. He didn’t greet Sheikh Makhmud. He didn’t greet anyone. He stopped in the middle of the centre archway and stared in silence at the gathering, my briefcase tucked under his arm. It was an effective entrance, and I knew by his aggressive manner that he had intended it to be. Impressive, too, for he was dressed exactly as I had last seen him, and behind him crowded the bodyguard, all armed to the teeth. It was impressive because of the contrast: the man so small, so completely at the mercy of the armed men behind him, and yet so dynamic, so completely in command of the situation.

  He ignored Sheikh Makhmud’s greeting. “What’s the feast for?” That harsh voice seemed to cut through the room.

  Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Even Sheikh Makhmud seemed stunned into silence.

  “Mister Erkhard.” The “Mister” was a calculated slap in the face. “I take it you’ve signed a concession agreement? There’s nothing else for Saraifa to celebrate at this moment.” And then, without giving Erkhard a chance to reply, he turned to Sheikh Makhmud. “I hope you’re not a party to this—that you signed in ignorance of the true situation.”

  “I don’t understand.” Sheikh Makhmud’s hands fluttered in a way that suggested dark moths endeavouring to cope with the intrusion of unwelcome thoughts. Slipping into Arabic, he began a speech of welcome.

  Rudely, Gorde cut him short. “Have you got the concession agreement on you? I’d like to see it, please.” He held out his hand, and such was the driving force of the man’s personality, the absolute conviction that men would obey him, that Sheikh Makhmud slipped his hand into the folds of his robe and brought out the document. Meekly he handed it over. “I think you find everything is all right.” The soft words, the gentle voice gave no sign of doubt or tension.

  Gorde called to one of the bodyguard to bring him a light. A stillness hung over the scene as he unfolded the document and glanced quickly through it. Then he raised his head and looked directly at Erkhard. “And you signed this on behalf of the Company.”

  The note of censure brought an immediate reaction from Erkhard. “As General Manager, I’m entitled to sign concession agreements.” His voice was thin, a little venomous as he added: “You should know that. You signed enough of them in your day.”

  “But never one like this.” And, slapping the document with his hand, he added: “This isn’t our normal agreement. Our normal form of agreement simply gives the Company the right to prospect. This makes it a legal charge upon the Company to do so. Moreover—” and his gaze fastened on Whitaker—“it doesn’t limit it to the area south of here where your rig is. It covers the whole of Saraifa, including the area in dispute on the Hadd border.”

  “Philip.” Whitaker had risen to his feet. “I’d like a word with you.”

  “And I’d like a word with you,” Gorde said sharply.

  “In private.”

  “No. We’ll settle this thing here and now. I just want a straight answer to a straight question. Is there or is there not oil where you’re drilling?”

  “We’re only down to three thousand-odd feet.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.” Gorde stared at him coldly. “There isn’t any oil, is there? There never was any oil there, and there never will be.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Erkhard, too, was on his feet.

  “It doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not, Alex,” Gorde rapped back. “It’s the truth.”

  “But he’s drilling with his own money. He’s invested every penny he’s got. Ask Grant. He handles his financial affairs, and Whitaker admits he’s out here partly because his money is almost exhausted. A man doesn’t put all his savings first into a thorough seismological survey and then into a drilling program …”

  “Bait.” The tone of Gorde’s voice brought Erkhard up short. “He was baiting the trap.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. You’d never in a thousand years understand a man like Charles Whitaker. You ride him out of the Company and it never occurs to you that he’ll get his own back some day. If you hadn’t been so intent on trying at the last minute to rectify your position … And you thought you were getting an oilfield on the cheap, for the price of his development costs plus fifty percent on royalties. Well, you ask him. You just ask him whether there’s any oil there.”

  But it wasn’t necessary. One glance at Whitaker’s face told Erkhard all he needed to know. It was drawn and haggard, the colour of putty, and though the mouth moved, no words came. Erkhard crossed to Gorde, took the document from his hand, and tore it across and across and dropped the pieces in the dust.

  There was a deathly hush. All eyes were turned on Sheikh Makhmud, waiting for his reaction. His face was the colour of clay, a shocked, almost old-womanish face, and his hands were trembling in the wide sleeves of his robe. “Sir Philip.” He had some difficulty in controlling his voice. “Your Company has signed an agreement. To tear up the paper is not to say the agreement does not exist.”

  “You can take us to Court.” Erkhard said. “But if Gorde’s right, you’ll lose your case.”

  Sheikh Makhmud waved his hands to signify that he had no intention of taking the Company to Court. He ignored Erkhard, addressing himself to Gorde. “I have always trusted the British. And you also; you have been my friend.”

  “I am still your friend,” Gorde said.

  “Then, please, you will honour the agreement.”

  “There is no agreement.” His voice held a note of pity now. “Mr. Erkhard has done the only thing possible in the circumstances.�
�� He turned to Whitaker. “For God’s sake, Charles, did you have to raise their hopes like this?” It was clear from his words that he didn’t like the role he was being forced to play. “The truth was bound to come out in the end.”

  “What is the truth?” The pale eyes were fastened on Gorde in an aloof stare. “Do you know it? Are you so sure there’s no oil in Saraifa? For twenty years now I have searched …”

  “To hell with your theory,” Gorde snapped. “Just answer me this, a simple yes or no. Is there oil where you’re drilling?”

  “I’ve told you, we’re only down to just over three thousand feet. Erkhard could have waited—”

  “You know damn well he couldn’t wait. You’re not such a fool that you haven’t guessed why I’m out here risking my health on another tour of the Gulf.”

  “You thought my theory sound enough at one time. Remember?”

  “And I backed you,” Gorde rasped. “I backed you because you’d got faith in yourself. But now I wonder. Now I think you’ve lost that faith. I don’t think you believe in your theory any more.”

  “What makes you say that?” Whitaker’s voice was sharp, unnaturally high, and his face looked shocked.

  Gorde leaned his squat body forward. “Because,” he said, “if you’d any faith in your theory, you’d have backed your son. Instead, you left him to die out there on his own—alone, deserted.” Each word punched home in that rasping voice. It was a terrible indictment. And he added: “Didn’t you understand that he was attempting to do what you’d no longer the guts to even try and do—to find oil, real oil? Not this sham, this clever, crooked dodge to trap us into signing—”

  “Philip!” It came from Whitaker’s mouth as a strangled cry. “I want to talk to you—alone.”

  It was an appeal, the call of past friendship. But Gorde ignored it. “I’ve nothing to say to you, Charles.” The words came bleak and cold. “Except perhaps this: if there is any oil in Saraifa, then my guess is that it’s right there on the border where your son was prospecting. But,” he added, turning to Sheikh Makhmud, “I have to tell you that there’s absolutely no question of our Company—or any other company, for that matter—undertaking exploratory work there at the present time. I was with the Political Resident for two hours this morning. He made the Government’s attitude very clear. And now that I know what happened here last night, simply because one of our geologists was inadvertently on that border, I think he’s right.”