Roberta Leigh - Flower of the Desert

by Roberta Leigh

  "You said you weren't going home," he reminded her, "but since you gave me no other address, I brought you here."

  "I was going home," she confessed. "I only said I wasn't because… because I was embarrassed with you."

  He gave her a hard stare through eyes so narrow that it was impossible for her to read their expression.

  "I won't ask you why," he said abruptly and, without saying anything further, returned to his car and drove away.

  With a disappointment that had no rhyme and reason,

  Fleur let herself into the house. Normally she would have been pleased to have the rest of the day free, but now she regretted her refusal to go out with Rory and debated whether to call him and say she had changed her mind. Was her restlessness due to Nizea's unthinking prattle, or did it come from her conversation with Karim Khan? But she had only talked to him of trivialities, though he had a way of making even the trivial seem important. That was because he was so deliberate in everything he said, giving the impression that he gave great thought to all his statements. For a moment in the hospital she had almost believed he had come to see his sister because he had guessed that she herself would be there; she might still have thought it had she not seen at once that the idea was ludicrous.

  Reluctant to continue thinking of him, she went to the classroom where she had left a pile of exercise books that needed correcting. Carrying them back to her bedroom, she set to work.

  The long afternoon passed slowly, then dusk fell quickly, the way it always does in the East. She washed and made herself tidy before going down to supper, a light meal during the weekend and one she usually took with a couple of the other teachers who lived at the school. But tonight there was only herself and Madame Nadar in the dining room, though the bottle of wine on the table made Fleur wonder what was being celebrated, for Madame was frugal and not given to such extravagance.

  But when the Principal finally disclosed the reason for the wine, the word "celebration" was not one that came to Fleur's mind. It was impossible for her to go with Nizea to the Khans' home in the mountains. Madame had no right to suggest it nor to look so disgruntled when she immediately said no. She had come here to work at the school, not to act as chaperone for one particular pupil, and especially not in that pupil's home. It had been difficult enough to visit Nizea each day in Teheran, but to go to the mountains and stay there for a period of weeks would allow her no freedom whatever. Worse still, she would suffocate in the rigid atmosphere that Mr. Khan imposed on his womenfolk.

  Yet no matter what excuses she gave, she knew she had not allowed the real one to surface to her conscious mind. But surface it must. If she went on refusing to acknowledge the danger, she would be unable to marshal her defences. And defence was imperative. Only by maintaining her guard against the insidious attraction that was making her painfully aware of a man who, logic told her, could never make her anything but desperately unhappy, would she stand a chance of retaining her heart. There could never be anything between herself and Karim Khan. He was attracted to her—she knew that—had known it since the night he had driven her home from his father's house. But he would only want to flirt with her; to take sensuous pleasure in her fair coloring which was so different from that of his own countrywomen. Anything deeper and more lasting would be unthinkable for both of them.

  "I hope you will reconsider it and change your mind," Madame Nadar was speaking again. "As you know I am under an obligation to Mr. Khan."

  "It isn't my obligation, Madame." It was the first time

  Fleur had stood her ground, and the Persian woman looked annoyed.

  "I cannot force you to do as I ask, Miss Peters, nor would I try to break my contract with you. So you see I have no way in which I can make you change your mind other than to rely on your sense of responsibility."

  "I fail to see what responsibility you are referring to, Madame."

  "Do you not feel you have encouraged Nizea's ambition to write and given her cause to hope she might get her own way with her father?"

  "I have encouraged all my pupils to stand up for what they believe in. I did no more for Nizea than for any of the other girls."

  "But Nizea isn't like the other girls. She feels things more deeply—possibly because she is talented—and by encouraging her ideas you have created a rebel."

  "A rebel because she wants to continue her education?" Fleur said bitterly. "If I had known her father was still living in the last century, I would…"

  "There are many men who think the same way," Madame Nadar interrupted. "But to talk of it is futile." The plump hands fluttered. "Let us change the subject. As to the Khans' offer—you are free to do as you wish."

  "I'll stay with Nizea for a couple of weeks," Fleur said hesitantly. She knew she was foolish to capitulate but after hasty reflection could not see any other way out. "But I'd like you to make it clear that I won't stay the entire summer."

  "I'm sure Mr. Khan wouldn't expect it of you."

  "Was it Mr. Karim Khan who made the suggestion?"

  "Yes. But obviously with the family's approval."

  Fleur's heart thumped heavily. So she had been right in thinking Karim Khan was attracted to her? Her sense of triumph quickly gave way to trepidation.

  "Please make it clear to Mr. Khan that I must feel free to leave whenever I wish," she reiterated.

  "I assure you there'll be no problems about that. And thank you for changing your mind. You won't regret it."

  Fleur wished she could agree, but her intuition told her Madame was very wrong indeed.

  Six

  Fleur rolled off the floating lilo and dipped her toes into the swimming pool. It was in a free form style with mosaic sides, and the water was heavily scented with jasmine. This was luxury indeed.

  Keeping her eyes closed she tilted her face to the sun, enjoying the warmth of the rays and knowing she dare not bask for long lest they burn her delicate skin. She wriggled happily. It was so easy to grow used to idleness that it was hard to believe she had been here only a couple of weeks.

  Luckily, the fears that had made her hesitate to accept the offer had not materialized, for Karim Khan had made no attempt to seek her out during either of the two weekends he had spent here since her arrival. Though piqued by his behavior, she was sensible enough to be glad of it.

  He had obviously realized nothing could result from their friendship and had wisely decided not to pursue it.

  But though logic told her to be glad, emotion made her feel otherwise, and when the son of the house was in residence she could not quiet the racing of her heart nor prevent self-consciousness from pervading every part of her body. It was almost as if his eyes were constantly upon her. She could even imagine him watching her now, though she knew him to be in Teheran, and was irritated that she could not be as indifferent to him as he now seemed to be toward her.

  She lowered her head, and her hair fell forward over her face. She wore it loose during the day and it lay upon her shoulders like red-gold foam. Her skin was tanned to the color of honey; not the deep tan of Karim Khan, but a lighter shade that showed up the golden blonde flecks of hair on her forearms. Her apple-green bikini had brought forth squeals of delight from Nizea and had almost decided Fleur to wear a darker one-piece suit in its place— something she had every intention of doing if either of the Khan men elected to come and sun themselves by the pool. But during her time here neither of them had done so, and she had met them only briefly each Saturday evening when she and Nizea dined with Mrs. Khan and several of the other women from the household in the main salon where coffee and drinks were served: fruit drinks for those whose religion did not allow them to take alcohol and stronger drinks for the others.

  Even here the younger Khan had made no attempt to say more to her than a brief greeting and had spent most of his time with the guests who were staying with them. Some came by car and some in the Khans' private helicopter. So far Fleur was the only European and had consequently felt very alien, though e
veryone always went out of the way to make her feel at home; she had found the women, in particular, to be extremely friendly. But she had always been glad to have Nizea as her excuse for not joining them in their private rooms later in the evening. Instead she would sit with her pupil and read or talk, using the time to try to make the girl accept the fact that she could not go against the plans her father had made for her.

  She was not sure how well she was succeeding in this, and she thought of it now as she slipped into the water. It lapped against her skin like velvet and she leisurely swam a length and then floated on her back, reveling in the scent of jasmine and enjoying the warm rays of the sun above her and the cooling, buoyant water beneath. If only her friends in England could see her now. The thought made her smile, though it disappeared as she remembered Rory's annoyance when she had told him she was coming here,

  "I never saw you as nursemaid to the Khans' daughter," he had protested. "You should have told Madame Nadar to pay her own debt of gratitude."

  He would have been even angrier had he known that his reluctance to let her go away had confirmed her belief that she was doing the right thing in leaving Teheran. This at least might encourage him to go out with some of the other British and American girls living in the capital.

  He had telephoned twice since she had arrived here, asking when she was coming back, but she had been evasive in her replies though she had already made up her mind she would not stay here longer than a month. But as two-weeks had already passed without the son of the house making any attempt to occupy her time, she was not sure it was necessary for her to leave as early as she had intended. Staying here during the hot summer months would be infinitely preferable to life in the city.

  She reached the side of the pool and climbed out, shaking her hair free of water. In five minutes the sun would dry it and it would once more be silky around her shoulders. She sank on to her mattress and reached for some suntan oil. She had forgotten to bring it with her and, deciding she might as well go in search of Nizea, she slipped on a white toweling robe, pulled the belt tightly around her waist and went through the luxuriant gardens towards the house.

  As always the sight of its smooth white facade, the minaret-shaped roof, and the slender white pillars supporting the arched, covered terraces that ran along three sides brought a catch to her throat. The more she saw it, the more she appreciated its delicate yet oriental splendor. Amidst the heavy, variegated green foliage and profusion of flowers, it stood out like a gleaming pearl.

  The seeming bareness of the interior had at first come as a shock to her eye. But now she was accustomed to it and saw that it allowed one to appreciate the shape and beautiful design of each room. The entrance hall was circular, with a graceful staircase curving upward like the stamen of a flower. The dining room was a long rectangle and the main salon a perfect oval; both with long narrow windows covered by shimmering white silk that diffused the brilliant white light. The floors were of marble: pale green onyx in the hall and shining white and gold in the main rooms and terraces. The ceilings were vaulted and blue as the summer sky after rain, while everywhere there were magnificent Persian rugs—glowing like jewels—either on the floor or hanging on the wall. Furniture was kept to a minimum though there was an abundance of velvet and satin cushions and small, ivory-inlaid tables laden with silver bowls of fruit and sweetmeats. Only the dining room was furnished in European style, with a long table and chairs of smoky blue glass and steel.

  Quickly Fleur ran up to Nizea's room, where the girl was resting on her bed.

  "Do you believe one can write only from experience?" Nizea asked the moment Fleur came in.

  "It depends. Why do you ask?"

  "I was thinking of Franchise Sagan. She wrote a wonderful book when she was only seventeen."

  "Are you going to prove it can be done a second time?"

  "I wish I could." There was a heavy sigh. "The trouble is I don't have a plot."

  "Why not write about your childhood? From what you've told me, it sounds fascinating."

  "It was dull."

  "Not the way you describe it. All those lovely incidents with your Aunt Maideh. The intrigues and arguments, and how the women manage to get their own way with the men. Didn't you ever keep a diary?"

  "I've got ten. I started keeping them when I was seven." She reached under the bedclothes and pulled out a leatherbound notebook. "It's strange you should tell me to write about my childhood. I was reading one of my diaries just before you came in. Read it, and tell me what you think."

  Fleur took the notebook and perched on the edge of a chair, her shapely legs stretching in front of her. Nizea wrote in a scrawl, but soon the power of what she had written superceded the difficulty of deciphering it, and Fleur was held enthralled. Here was the outpouring of a charming girl, pausing on the brink of womanhood to look back on her childhood. With warm humor she evoked her life in a cloistered environment, where she had learned to temper her curiosity with discretion; learned, too, that it was better to flatter in order to get what she wanted than to indulge in tantrums.

  At the end of a dozen pages Fleur closed the diary with a deep sigh. "If I ever had any regrets in coming to Iran, then being able to say you were once my pupil will make it all worthwhile."

  "Will it really, Miss Peters?"

  "Really," Fleur smiled, and then said what she had been meaning to say for several days. "Don't you think you might call me Fleur? Each time you say Miss Peters I feel like an old spinster."

  "How old are you?"

  "Twenty-five—definitely a spinster by Persian standards." She stood up. "Though I don't think I'll live to be a very old maid unless I change out of this wet costume. But I just wanted to pop in and see if you were all right."

  "Are you going down to the pool again?"

  "Yes, but not to swim. We can sit in the shade and do some work."

  "I'm on holiday," Nizea pouted.

  "Life is one long holiday for you," Fleur teased and went to her own room to change into a sun dress.

  She was glad she had replenished her wardrobe extravagantly before coming to Iran, though the clothes that had pleased her so much when she had bought them in England looked ordinary compared with the beautiful outfits worn by the Persian women who came to visit the Khans. Their jewelry too astounded her, making her realize the immense wealth that existed in the country: a wealth that made the Greek shipping tycoons seem poor by comparison. The Middle East was the world of the future, she thought soberly as she buttoned the bodice of her white cotton sun suit. She only hoped that the power that money brought would not corrupt them.

  For the next couple of hours Fleur and Nizea sat in the garden where the riotously blooming flowers would have made the covers of any seed packet look insipid. It was as if technicolor had gone mad and, even with dark glasses, the blazing scarlet, chrome yellows, and vivid greens were blinding to the eye.

  Petunias and pansies seemed to be the rage, though the ubiquitous rose flourished everywhere. There was a bush of two-colored roses that Fleur found unfailingly astonishing, and she looked at it regularly each day. The outer petals were yellow and, as each new bud unfolded into a full blown rose, the inner petals were seen to be scalloped. Fountains tinkled everywhere, and narrow canals filled with floating red petals crisscrossed lawns that were kept green by the continuous labor of servants. There was a quality about the atmosphere of the garden that made it easy for Fleur to imagine Karim Khan's ancestors sitting here holding court; a lordly, black-bearded Khan in jewel-studded robes, lying on a couch surrounded by the women of his harem.

  So clear was this vision that she ceased talking to Nizea and watched as a servant approached with iced tea. As she sipped the fragrant brew she asked Nizea how far her family could trace back their line.

  "Hundreds of years," the girl said proudly. "It is said that the true Persian originally came from Southern Russia and settled on the high plains of Iran. Some of them went on to India so I suppose I could have end
ed up in Delhi wearing a sari!"

  "You've given me a very generalized account of your ancestors," Fleur said drily. "Can't you be more specific with the details?"

  The younger girl burst out laughing. "If you really want to know about my great-great-greats, you'd better talk to my father. He knows every branch and twig of the family tree! For myself, I couldn't care less."

  "You've no poetry in your soul," Fleur teased and leaned forward to take a sweetmeat. Then she stopped. Unless she exercised some control over the habit of nibbling these delicious confections, she would have to start letting out the seams of her dresses.

  "Karim's just as proud of his ancestors as my father is," Nizea commented. "We once had some English guests who asked him if he thought of himself as an Arab, and I thought he'd have a fit!"

  It was a question that Fleur knew evoked a strong, negative response in most Persians, since the Arabs had once been their conquerors.

  "In fact, if you talk to Karim about our family," Nizea went on, "he'll make it even more interesting than my father will"

  Fleur was sure of this and equally sure that the last thing in the world she wanted was to talk to Karim Khan about anything. The less she saw of him the better for her peace of mind.

  There was the drone of an aircraft in the sky but the trees prevented them from seeing it. The sound came nearer, and then by the rough beat of engines they knew it was a helicopter.

  "That's Papa and Karim," Nizea announced.

  "So early?" Fleur questioned.

  "It's Thursday, don't forget, and sometimes Papa stops at lunchtime."

  Fleur smiled. "I still can't get used to having a weekend begin on Thursday night."

  "That's because you keep Sunday, too."

  "Only from habit. It's not because I'm religious."

  "I'm not religious either," Nizea stated. "How can I accept a religion that regards women as the chattels of men? Don't you think it's dreadful?"

  Fleur refused to answer. She had learned long ago that Nizea was indiscreet and quite likely to repeat any opinions discussed here on a less private occasion.