“Like to come to the jeweller’s with me,” he called out, hoping to make amends. “I’m picking up a necklace for my mother. I need feminine support.”
“You’re big enough to support yourself,” said Sheila, getting into her car. “Besides, I don’t want to go near the souk today. I heard there was trouble this morning. Two men were arrested—agitators from Cairo banging the Arab nationalist drum, I expect. Anyway, I’m keeping clear. I see the results of these riots too often up at the hospital. Do you have to get your mother’s necklace today? Couldn’t it wait?”
John shook his head. “I might forget. Besides I said I would be in today.”
“Today, tomorrow—it’s all the same to them.”
“I said today.”
Sheila leaned out of her car window. “I’m passing the Pakistani baker on my way back to the hospital. Would you like me to call in and see if he has any curry puffs?”
“Thanks,” said John. “You’re a dear.”
You mean I’m a fool, thought Sheila, driving away. Why hadn’t she the sense to leave things alone? John was not interested in her, beyond as a pretty and available companion to take to parties and to crew for him at the sailing club races. That she could also sew on a button and administer to a headache made her doubly welcome at the bachelors’ mess.
Sheila looked back in her driving-mirror. John was still standing by the sea front, such a very tall English-looking man with his thatch of light brown, sun-streaked hair, and his far-away vivid blue eyes that deepened to grey as the sun went down. It was strange how the colour changed in that unfathomable way, as if when evening party-time came he found it necessary to pull a mask over his eyes.
She watched him turn in the direction of the souk, then stop and go back to his jeep as if to lock away his purchases before leaving the vehicle. It was not wise to leave anything loose in a car.
He crossed again dodging a haughty, plodding camel and an Arab riding a thin donkey. The Arab was holding aloft a big black golf umbrella, souvenir of some audience with a sheikh no doubt. But it did not shade the weary donkey, stumbling along, head down.
The souk was a maze of narrow lanes crowded with tiny, open shops that fronted dark, mysterious caverns filled with the scent of musk and spices, and incense. There was barely room for two people to pass along the narrow central pathways. Some of the shops seemed to be hewn out of rock, with steep, worn stone steps climbing up into the entrance. The merchants sat on these steps, smoking and talking to their neighbours and inviting custom.
The roof was a hodge-podge of straw mats and sheets of corrugated iron, and anything else that could be found to fill in a hole. But still shafts of sunlight stabbed the cool, dark air of the bustling lanes.
John knew his way through part of the souk. But it was easy to get lost. The lanes intersected so frequently and the shops all looked so much alike that very few Europeans went further into the market than they had to.
The shop that John wanted was in the goldsmiths’ lane, where every shop was a jeweller’s and masked Arab women argued in shrill voices over the price of some rings or gold bangles.
John recognised the shop by the glowing red Persian carpet on the stone floor and the swinging brass incense lamp hanging in the doorway. He ducked down to enter.
The jeweller’s wares were kept locked away. Only a few curved Arabic daggers and Khanjar knives in silver and oryxhorn were on display, and some cheaper items in coral and mother-of-pearl. The fat, placid jeweller went deeper into his cavern’s depths to fetch the necklace. He unfolded a small piece of black velvet on the floor and then, with great showmanship, trickled the necklace out of his podgy hand into a perfect circle on the velvet.
It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Delicate gold links supporting a seven-pointed star in the centre. Embedded in the star was an ancient Arabian coin; not rare, but ancient enough to be an excellent tourist attraction, and the jeweller made a good business of putting these coins into different settings.
“Seven-pointed star lucky Arabic symbol,” said the jeweller in his laboured English.
“Good,” said John, not wanting to spoil the sales talk.
“OK? You take?”
The price had been arranged earlier, so John had nothing more disagreeable to do than to pay up. The money passed with many blessings to Allah and bows and gold-filled smiles and nods.
The jeweller wrapped the necklace first in some crudely torn tissue paper, and then in a scruffy piece of second-hand brown wrapping paper.
“Careful,” said the jeweller. He tapped his sides where his pockets would have been if he had pockets, and made a warning expression.
John thanked him, ducked down under the hanging lamp and went out into the gloom of the souk. Now he had to buy Brett’s sandals, then he could go home and get showered and changed. There was one particular shop where one had a better chance of getting a right and a left foot of the same size. Now which way was it?
He wandered vaguely in the direction of the clothes alleys and came out unexpectedly into the main street again, where the noise of traffic and animals and pedestrians assailed his ears from all sides.
Then John realised that it was exceptionally noisy because of some loud arguing coming from a group of sallow, lighter-skinned Arabs who were pushing and shoving people out of the way. They had rifles slung over their shoulders, and daggers tucked in their belts. John thought it very unwise for anyone to argue with them.
Another, sharper-faced Arab, with eyes like black beads, began to talk to the crowd, his voice becoming louder and excited, his arms making dramatic sweeps. The crowd grew: loitering children, a few hopeful beggars, tall ragged Bedouins from the hinterland in their red-check headcloths and sandals made from old tyres, and immigrant labourers idling a few more hours away.
John knew enough Arabic to realise that the agitator was voicing anti-British propaganda, inciting the people of Shuqrat to throw out the British and join the Arab nationalists. John stepped back into the shadows of the souk entrance, not wanting to ask for trouble, hoping that he might slip away unobserved.
But that slight movement was enough to draw attention to himself, or perhaps the sun suddenly caught the fair streaks in his hair. The next moment, the agitator was pointing at John accusingly with a grimy-nailed finger, loading the guilt of unspeakable horrors on to John’s shoulders.
There was a nasty murmur from the crowd, and John decided this was not the time to call for an interpreter, or the protection of the flag-waving political agent. He retreated.
There was nowhere to go except straight back into the souk. It was not easy to run. The strolling shoppers in the souk bumped and jostled him as he tried to dodge the general tide of people. A clamour of excited Arab voices followed him as he unsuccessfully tried to shake off his pursuers.
To his advantage, he was young and healthy with a long stride, and he was unhampered by clinging robes and the need to stop and tell everyone what was happening.
He went further into the souk, into narrow little lanes which had not seen the sun for years, where the shops were no more than rabbit holes selling a few dried chillies or some grubby rice on a mat:
“Salaam, m’sser. Salaam.” The voice came from a bundle of old rags that John nearly fell over in the gloom. It was impossible to tell whether the beggar was man, woman or child.
John dropped a handful of small coins as he ran. Over his shoulder he saw the bundle of rags become agile enough to scratch in the dust for the tiny wafer-thin discs. Normally one did not give to beggars, for to do this on the open streets was to invite every sister, cousin and aunt of the fortunate one to follow you all day with their dismal wailing.
Suddenly John came out of the souk into an alleyway. It was a part of the town he had never seen before and it seemed strangely quiet. A stray goat, nibbling a brown paper bag, looked at him without interest. On either side of the alley were high, bleak walls; one was obviously quite old and built of uneven stones, but the o
ther was modern and concrete-faced, and embedded in the concrete were small pieces of granite grit which glinted in the late afternoon sunlight.
He ran down the alley, panting hard. The way turned abruptly, and to his horror he ran full tilt against a heavy iron gate. He turned to retrace his steps, but already voices were closing in; the old beggar had obviously earned a few more coins without one thought for his previous benefactor.
John eyed the gate. There were a few footholds in the ironwork; the hinges were half an inch thick and a heavy iron ring was attached by a wrought-iron eagle’s head. With a last glance behind him, John scaled the iron gate and dropped noiselessly over the other side of the wall. Not a moment too soon, for the mob were now the other side of the wall, arguing in loud voices about where he could be.
John found himself in a strange narrow yard, beyond which was another inner wall built of slabs of rock crystal, and above the top of that wall he saw a plane tree, the leaves green and vivid. There was another gate in this inner wall, a double gate made of wood and studded with iron. John heard bolts being drawn from the other side and flattened himself against the wall, hoping he would not be squashed as the gate swung back.
A guard in white robes, rifle slung over his shoulder, went to investigate the noise from the mob outside the iron gate. The guard was shouting at them, ordering them to be quiet and make less noise. But it was impossible for him to make himself heard. In the confusion John edged out from behind the gate and slipped inside the inner wall.
Then he was in a cool and shady garden with trees and flowers and water trickling out of ornamental fountains. It was so unexpected and beautiful that for a moment he hesitated, forgetting the need for caution. He heard the twittering of birds in an elaborately constructed aviary and caught sight of a flash of brilliant wing. The lush growth of the creeper betrayed its regular watering. The air was full of perfume from the flowers, and the coolness and the gentle sound of the water and the birds made it a place where one wanted to linger.
John moistened his mouth and wished he could have a drink from the fountain, well water or not, but he did not dare to stop.
He came into a large courtyard flanked by an arcade of five arches supported by marble pillars, and he saw that through the arches were other, smaller courtyards with doors and archways leading off. Above him was the slender tower of a minaret, and inside its slatted onion-shaped dome shone a vivid blue and gold enamel.
The mob had somehow convinced the guard that there was an intruder in the gardens, for John heard the guard hurrying back for help. It would only be seconds before the gardens were being thoroughly searched.
John sought the long shadows and the slim cover of the marble pillars, then slid into the furthermost courtyard of the five. This small courtyard was even more beautiful than the first. In the centre was an ornamental fountain of polished green marble, the water sparkling like crystals as it dropped into the wide basin. There were small palms and climbing plants, jasmine and bougainvillea, urns spilling with flowers, and large exotic dragonflies darting among the blossom.
John could not pause a moment in this paradise. He opened a creaky, iron-studded door. The hallway was dark and cool, with narrow corridors branching from it in several directions. The size of the place was bewildering; the buildings and grounds must have covered several acres, and yet it was so carefully hidden within the souk that John had not even been aware of its existence before.
He knew he was in a most dangerous situation. He must hide until it was dark, and then hope he could climb out the way he had climbed in.
He passed a number of small, tawdry furnished rooms, each a jumble of living and sleeping suites, but which appeared to be in use.
The last room had an air of quietness and emptiness as he cautiously opened the door. It was larger than the others and the floor was paved in marble. The centre of the ceiling was domed with four carved marble pillars supporting the weight, and glass had been cut into the dome to let in the light. Under the dome was a large oval sunken bath in fine white marble, with a curved armrest and delicately panelled surround. Round the sides of the bath were small ornamental gold pipes which supplied water from all directions, and small steps led down to it.
John drew back his breath in amazement. It was quite the most beautiful bathroom he had ever seen. It seemed to be from another world, another century, for the walls were exquisitely tiled with ancient floral designs and in each corner of the room was a small fountain above a shell-shaped basin of the palest pink.
And yet there were some signs of modernity: several large cut-glass bottles of bath oil in garish colours, which he had seen on sale in the souk, and hanging from some contemporary brass rings in the wall were a set of bath towels in pink, so thick that they could only have come from Harrods.
It was obviously a woman’s room. John wondered if this made it any safer for him to hide in. Would the guards be allowed to enter such a room, even to search it?
A door to the right led to a small dressing room in which John saw a tall, inlaid ivory screen. He was about to move it swiftly into the best angle for concealment, when he stopped aghast, hardly daring to breathe.
Asleep on a divan behind the screen, her head resting on silken cushions was a young girl. Her face was one of amazing beauty, for the flawless olive skin was glistening with oil, and the dark wings of her eyebrows were a perfect shape above the long lashes which fanned out on her faintly pink cheeks. She was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. Her nose was small and delicate and yet slightly arrogant, and her mouth was warmly red and wide and curved into a restful smile.
She was obviously sleeping off a bath in the Arabian custom, wrapped up to the armpits in a huge thick bath sheet, and her long dark hair twisted loosely on her head, the moisture still slowly dripping down her slender neck.
John began to step backwards, one foot at a time, in tense silence, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. In feeling for the doorway, he touched the door; only slightly, but the noise sounded like a crack of thunder, and the girl opened her eyes and shot up on the divan, terrified, clutching the sheet to her.
In a flash John was over to her side, his big hand firmly over her half-opened mouth. Her eyes looked up at him, and even the terror in them did not destroy their absolute beauty. They were a brown so dark and clear and large that John almost slackened his grip.
But the moment passed. The girl began to struggle, her eyes flashing with a fury now mixed with her fear.
“I won’t hurt you,” said John in a low voice. “Don’t struggle. I’m not going to harm you.”
His mind hunted for the right words in Arabic, and he began again, haltingly, “Don’t be afraid…”
Suddenly the girl sank her teeth into his hand, his burnt hand, and the pain was excruciating. She slipped from his grasp, but instead of screaming, she scrambled to the other end of the divan and sat with great dignity wrapping the sheet more closely round herself.
“If you had not clapped your big hand so clumsily over my mouth, I could have told you that I would not scream,” she said, surprisingly in English. She went on in her small, clear voice: “You are like a five-footed camel. No doubt the whole palace has heard you, and my servants will be here in a moment.”
“I can explain,” said John. “It’s all an accident, a mistake. Believe me, I just want to get out of here.”
From outside came the shrill voices of some women. The girl rose from the divan and stood in the doorway, listening. A woman had come into the marble bathroom and was talking at great length.
At last the girl said in Arabic: “Go away. You are disturbing my sleep. There is no one here. Begone, I tell you.”
John sank back on the divan, wiping his face and hands, breathing hard. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he began.
“Shsh,” she warned. “It is still not safe. I will hide you in my summer kiosk until it is dark. Then I will lead you out of the Gate of the Dead.”
John
could not believe his ears. They were strange words for this century. Had one of those ruffians hit him on the head, and this was all some concussed fantasy?
“Where am I?” he asked. “Who are you?”
The girl stood in the doorway, dark and slender and with great dignity. She seemed to be looking closely at him, and what she saw in the tall, fair Englishman seemed to meet her approval. Suddenly she realised that her face was uncovered, and in some confusion she turned away and wound a muslin veil round her head, so that only her beautiful dark eyes were visible.
“Tell me who you are,” said John again.
The girl waved her free hand gracefully to encompass the buildings and the gardens, her henna’d palm uppermost.
“This is the old town palace of His Supreme Highness, Sheikh Abd-ul Hamid, the Ruler of Shuqrat, Land of the Five Deserts and Birthplace of the Eagle’s Tongue,” she said gravely.
Then she added, with simple pride: “I am his second daughter, Princess Khadija Safieh, Flower of His Eye and Daughter of all Wisdom. These are the women’s quarters. You are in the royal harem.”
Chapter Two
John’s first reaction was one of dismay. If he was caught in the royal harem, then it was the end of his career with the oil company for certain. Sheikh Abd-ul Hamid would demand his rapid removal from the country, followed by instant dismissal. His blood chilled as he recalled rumours of the crude and drastic Arab law—beatings, mutilations, dawn shootings—it would be a wonder if he even escaped with his life.
“I’ve got to get out,” he muttered, thoroughly alarmed.
“Do not despair, tall Englishman,” said Khadija. “I said I would hide you.”
“What will happen if I’m caught?”
The Weeping Desert Page 2
