Love Patterns

by Michael B. Malone

  At the fort, Alan, Andrew, Sven and the two Italians were on tenterhooks, wondering when their turn would come to return home. They were left mostly to their own devices, with Professor Suleman still paying the occasional visit to keep them supplied with anything that they needed. The soldiers were reduced in number, although Alwan remained.

  Alan continued his conversations with him, practising his Arabic.

  November went by with constant reports of yet another meeting to try to find a peace formula with the Arab and other negotiators constantly on the move from one capital to another. On the sixth of December the fort erupted with cheers when they heard on the radio that all hostages were to be released. It wasn’t until later that Andrew remembered that Alan had been a lot less cheerful than the rest. They were not even confined to the fort, so Alan took the opportunity to practise on Warid’s mashhuf and soon regained his former competence. A few days later they were told they would be taken to Baghdad the next morning. There was a flurry of packing. Alan packed his case then sat on his bed, trembling, with his hands clamped to his head. The thought of going home terrified him. He tried to analyse his feelings, but there was a part of his mind that he didn’t dare enter. The memory of Kirsty’s eyes gazing into his returned. He felt the wrongness again. Making his decision, he wrote a note to Andrew, asking him to take his luggage home, explaining that he wasn’t ready to return yet and was going into the marshes to live there for a while. He wrote a letter to his parents, then after some thought, a letter to Kirsty, asking her to forgive him, promising to come home when he had recovered. Leaving the letters on top of his case, he packed his kitbag and padded quietly down to the kitchen where he helped himself to as much food as he could carry and stole down to the jetty, casting a last look back at the fort.

  Then in the moonlight he paddled Warid’s mashhuf quietly away into the marsh.

  Chapter 43

  Alan paddled the masshuf until he was well away from the fort, then he steered the boat into a huge jungle of reeds. He spread his sleeping bag out in the bottom of the craft then pulled a blanket over himself and eventually slept. He woke shivering, early the next morning and after a few mouthfuls of bread he wrapped one of his checked tea towels round his head and secured it with string. He started paddling again, keeping to the vast patches of reeds, ready to hide if there was any sign of pursuit. He travelled all day trying to keep covering as much as possible. If he came upon any villages, which was liable to happen quite suddenly, he didn’t stop, and if anyone called a greeting he answered in Arabic, keeping his kefiyah bound around his face, so that to any observer he would look like a Marsh Arab paddling his mashhuf on some errand.

  Kirsty, delirious with excitement at the announcement that all hostages would soon be released, skipped classes once she had learned that the hostages had started to arrive and stayed glued to the television set for the next two days, hourly expecting a phone call to say that Alan had arrived.

  The next day dawned bright and clear, and after a breakfast of water and bread Alan consulted his map and decided that he should arrive at Warid’s village that morning. Navigating only by compass, since there were no landmarks, he eventually found himself in a miles-wide area of reeds. Certain that the village must be somewhere within it he paddled back and forth along narrow waterways for most of the morning, but could find no signs of human life. He stopped for a rest, ate the last of his bread and relaxed, listening to the subdued cacophony of squeals, chirps and songs from the birds, and other wildlife. The peace and the feeling of anonymity at being in so much space started to ease the tension that had been twisting inside him for the past weeks.

  He almost jumped out of his skin, as a raucous young man’s voice very near to him burst out singing a love song. Alan shouted. The song stopped. A voice laden with suspicion wafted through the reeds.

  “Yuha Hai?” (“Who’s that?”)

  Alan answered in Arabic. “Sadiq” (“Friend”).

  Moments later a broad, dark skinned face with heavy eyebrows and a hooked nose appeared through the reeds, looking over the high prow of a mashhuf with a rifle at the ready. As Alan loosened his headcloth the young man looked him over, then lowered his rifle a trifle and spat disgustedly into the water.

  “A foreigner.”

  Alan grinned in delight and decided to insult the stranger. “I was enjoying the peace here when I heard this execrable noise like a herd of buffalo farting, I didn’t realise that it was someone singing.”

  The Madan warrior gave a grin of merriment, lowered his rifle further and asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m searching for the village of Warid the son of Farhan,” Alan replied.

  The man scrutinised him. “What is your name?”

  “Alan Balfour.”

  The man’s expression changed. He put down the rifle and introduced himself. “I am Ali, a cousin of Warid. He asked us to welcome you if you came this way.”

  He seated himself in his mashhuf took up his paddle and ordered Alan to follow him. While they were making their way through a criss-cross of narrow waterways among the reeds, he remarked.

  “I was in the middle of my toilet when you shouted.”

  He gave Alan a wry grin, his white teeth gleaming. “Thank Abbas I had my shift pulled up. I haven’t had such a fright since I stepped on top of a wild pig!” Alan burst into peals of laughter.

  After a fifteen-minute journey through narrow waterways, during which Alan lost all sense of direction, they came to a wider patch of open water with some twenty to thirty reed houses built around it on banks and mounds. Around most of the huts naked children were playing in the water or paddling small canoes watched by women and girls of various ages, who occasionally shrieked warnings if the young ones became too adventurous.

  They looked curiously at Alan as he followed Ali. The younger ones shouted out questions. Ali, answered. “I’ve found a friend of Warid’s,” adding, with a grin at Alan. “A foreigner.”

  As the badinage between Ali and the women continued, Alan felt his face flush at the ribaldry of the comments concerning him. He wished that he’d kept his headcloth on.

  Ali stopped at a reed house where he leapt straight onto dry land to tie up his boat. Alan didn’t even try to emulate him. But transferred himself much more sedately to the bank, and moored the mashhuf to a rail woven of reeds.

  Ali stopped outside the hut and shouted, “Grandfather!”

  A moment later a small wiry looking man with a wispy beard appeared from the wall of the house, where Alan couldn’t see any sign of a door. Ali introduced Alan as the friend Warid had said might visit. The grandfather who gave his name as Ajram bade them welcome to his house, motioning for Alan to follow Ali through the part of the wall, which Alan could now detect was designed to give at that point and spring back after he passed. Ajram motioned for him to be seated on one of the cushions scattered around the reed floor, shooed a chicken out of the room and shouted through to the back that there was a guest. Soon a stately woman appeared with a tall narrow steaming kettle, followed by a younger woman with flashing dark eyes and a beautiful smile, who swayed sinuously and seemed to glide rather than walk. She carried a tray with three tall glasses and a plate of small biscuits smeared with honey. The women were introduced as Warid’s mother and his sister Shatha, but they did not stay, retiring quickly behind the reed curtain, Shatha casting a languorous look over her shoulder at him from beneath her long eyelashes. Her waist length hair was blue-black and her eyes slightly slanted, perhaps hinting at some Mongol ancestry Alan thought. Ajram took a battered teapot from a wooden chest, dumped in a spoonful of tea from a small sack then poured steaming water into the pot at the same time pounding the tea leaves with a wooden stick. Next, he took a handful of sugar crystals from the chest, dropped some into each glass then sat back on his heels and waited for the tea to infuse. While this ritual was taking place Alan looked around the room. Sacks, with unknown contents, hung from the sides of the roof,
thin rolled up mattresses lined the bottom of one wall and a battered chest of drawers and several wooden chests stood against the other. He studied Ajram. Twinkling brown eyes squinted over a thin hooked nose. Different parts of his body were in constant motion, as if imbued with an energy of their own. Watching him, Alan felt slightly dazed.

  Ajram lifted the lid of the teapot, sniffed, then as if satisfied, poured tea into the glasses. After ritual pleasantries, Alan told them his story, describing how he’d left the fort and wanted to stay in the marshes for a while. He asked if he could build a hut a little distance away from the village, adding.

  “I don’t want to get you into trouble with the authorities.”

  Ajram gazed into Alan’s eyes as if he could see right into him then pronounced.

  “This house is yours for as long as you wish. Don’t worry about government officials or soldiers they never venture into the marshes.” He added with a sneer. “They wouldn’t want to get their shiny boots wet.”

  Alan learned that Warid was still at university and should be home soon for the vacation, and that Warid’s father Farhan had been called up for reserve service in the army. Warid’s younger brother Bani, who was nine, was at school in a village not far away and should be home that evening. Shatha’s husband had been killed in the Iran/Iraq war, and she’d returned to her family with her daughter Maha. They spent the rest of the afternoon talking about the threatened war, the changes to the Madan’s way of life over the last few years and Saddam Hussein.

  Alan learned that although Saddam was hated by many, he was tolerated by most of the Iraqi people, who expected a strong ruthless leader to keep the warring factions and tribes in order. In response to Alan’s questions and outrage about chemical warfare and torture, Ajram shrugged.

  “It is the way of life. It existed long before Saddam. He doesn’t bother the Madan too much, anyway what could we do about it?”

  Alan had believed the Western press reports that nearly all Iraqis hated Saddam Hussein, but Ajram gave him a short history of Iraq and the present regime.

  “Saddam has done much to improve the lot of the Iraqi people,” he told Alan. “Even thirty years ago, farmers were using methods which were hundreds, even thousands of years old. The soil was tilled manually or by animals and the crops were planted and harvested by hand, but now, tractors, trucks and farm machinery are in everyday use. There are new roads, food canning factories, refrigeration and freezing plants. Many Madan are now earning money in paper making factories that make them rich beyond the dreams of their grandparents.” He continued. “Even remote regions now have electricity. Almost every large village has a primary school and every town a secondary school.” Alan was impressed. Ajram went on. “We used to have dreadful epidemics but five years ago, a vaccination program was set up to protect all Iraqi schoolchildren and huge housing developments and hospitals have been set up. This with improved water supply and sewage has eliminated the threat of these scourges.”

  Alan was almost persuaded. “What about the invasion of Kuwait and the atrocities?”

  Ajram gave him a calculating look. “Don’t believe all you read in your newspapers. Iraq protected the Gulf States from the revolutionary regime in Iran, taking the whole brunt of their offensive. Iraq now needs Petrodollars to pay off its debts and Kuwait is undermining us, by selling well above its quota of oil and driving the price down. There might have been some killing and looting, but what can you expect when soldiers who have lived all their lives in poverty encounter the affluence of the Kuwaities.” Ajram sighed as delicious odours wafted through from the kitchen, then smiled at Alan. “So, you see we have a lot to thank Saddam for, even if many of us blame him for getting us into the war with Iran. He stood up. “That speech has given me an appetite, let’s get ready for dinner.”

  Kirsty jumped up, her heart racing, at the ring of the doorbell but it was Andrew carrying Alan’s case, accompanied by Shelagh. With a feeling of dread, she invited them in. Andrew looked at Shelagh then looking sombre, he cleared his throat.

  “Alan isn’t with us,” he apologised. “He disappeared into the marshes.” Kirsty sank onto the settee, her eyes tightly closed to keep the tears in. Shelagh sat close to her and held out an envelope. “He left a letter for you.”

  Kirsty read the letter, her eyes brimming with tears then cried while Shelagh held her shaking shoulders. When Claire arrived with Frank, Andrew again explained what had happened. Feeling they could do no more, Andrew and Shelagh left Kirsty in Claire’s care. Frank left soon afterwards. Claire read the letter and sighed in despair, appalled at how the consequences of one thoughtless act were dragging on and on without end. She tried to console Kirsty, but her sister shut herself in her bedroom.

  Over the next month with Ali’s help, Alan built a small reed house for himself a little away from the village. He bought supplies at the village shop and acquired a Kalashnikov automatic and ammunition from a villager, who seemed to have a hidden stack of them. He took part in pig shoots and fishing expeditions with Ali, and Bani, a dark-eyed mischievous little urchin, and with Warid, when he returned. He visited the other houses in the village and the maidens were no longer shy with him, nor hid their faces, but smiled and gave him sidelong appraising looks. He loved their bubbling happiness, their white teeth flashing when they smiled, and their sheer dusky beauty. They wore colourful full skirts, braided coloured beads into their hair and when they spoke, their low voices sounded like soft music to Alan’s appreciative ears. He had no thought of any sexual contact however, for the penalties were severe and adultery could lead to blood feuds between families, or even deaths. He began to relax, and he was no longer worried about the authorities finding him. Warid had made discreet enquiries and it seemed that the military had more important things to worry about than one escaped hostage, who was going to be released anyway. He no longer hid his face, although he still wore his headcloth, finding it a useful protection from the ever-present midges and mosquitoes.

  He ceased to worry even when bathing, as there were other fair and red-haired marsh dwellers with green or blue eyes and any passing observer should accept him as a native.

  He often went on trips in the mashhuf, Warid had found for him. He felt that the marshes were the most beautiful place on earth. The many tiny islands dotted about were a mass of, buttercups and other golden white flowers. and the larger islands had willow trees, their branches full of black and white kingfishers. The marsh was a teeming Mecca for wildlife, with pelicans, herons, storks, and the occasional eagle high in the sky. The marshes were also on a major bird migratory route, with flocks of ducks of many kinds and flights of geese from Northern Russia, stopping for a rest. He would often paddle off alone to a small island he’d found, where he would watch a family of otters at play. Then he would bed down and fall asleep to a chorus of frogs croaking, unperturbed by the flies and midges attacking him. Gradually the peace and the misty almost hypnotic quality of the marshes started to heal the wound in his soul.

  In December, during a bleak cold spell, he went down with a fever and kept to his hut, sweating and feeling weak. Shatha was delegated to look after him, sponging him with water to keep him cool as he became delirious. He was alternately hot when he pushed the blankets off himself, then cold and shivering when Shatha would lie beside him to share her body heat. She woke one night to find Alan kissing her and murmuring, “Kirsty.” She smiled and responded and afterwards when Alan snuggled into her breast like a baby, she stroked his hair and whispered words of comfort to him.

  Kirsty woke up with a start and switched on the bed light but there was no one with her. Puzzled, she shut her eyes and touched the connection to Alan. It was as if he was right next to her. This continued for the next few nights and Kirsty wondered at it. Alan’s fever broke towards the end of the week. He woke in the middle of the night to feel the naked softness of a woman’s body in his arms. Puzzled and still drowsy, he stroked the curve of her hips, then closed his eyes and fell asle
ep again.

  Shatha stirred about dawn, waking him. Dazed, he watched her dressing. She felt his brow, smiled at him, then left. The realisation penetrated Alan’s befuddled mind. He’d slept with Warid’s sister. He’d dishonoured his friend. There was another memory inside him that he was too dazed to recall but he felt the violation deep within him, in almost every cell of his body. Sick with horror, he struggled feebly to his feet, wriggled into his shift, and not waiting to collect anything else, found his mashhuf and paddled away. In the afternoon, exhausted. He beached his boat on a small island and threw himself into the undergrowth and slept. He woke cold and shivering, in the afternoon, feverish and still in shock. The memory of the morning returned. Self-loathing consumed him. How could it have happened? He’d been welcomed into Warid’s home, he’d betrayed his friend’s trust. Women had been stoned or executed for less. Should he offer to marry Shatha? But he’d promised Kirsty. He tried to picture her but all he managed were flashes of memory like outlines bereft of all emotional colour. But he was engaged to her! He’d given her a ring, he must love her. But what about Shatha? He ought to marry her. Then as panic gripped him at the thought, he understood his earlier feelings in his hut. He couldn’t picture Kirsty’s face but something inside him recoiled in horror at the thought of a relationship with another woman. He belonged to Kirsty in a way that the most basic instincts inside him recognised. He shook his head in bewilderment. Days passed and he seemed to spiral down a never ending well of shame and despair. He became like a wild animal existing on berries and raw fish. Then as the urge to live left him, and still hunger drove him, he ate grubs and worms. He didn’t notice the bites and stings inflicted by myriads of insects on the bare patches of his skin, as his shift disintegrated about him, for his mind was directed inwards in a mental orgy of self-torture.

  At night he curled into a ball among the rushes, hoping he wouldn’t waken in the morning. He knew he was slipping towards madness but couldn’t stop himself. There was nothing he could grip onto, no rock he could cling to.