“To glance upon the veiled face of one of the sheikh’s favourites is to have your eyes put out. To have seen such a flower without her veil is instant death,” she informed him coolly.
John dare not imagine the extent of his punishment, for this lovely Arab girl was not only a favourite, but a princess, and a princess still wet from her bath.
Khadija seemed to read his thoughts, for she slipped behind the ivory screen and reappeared a moment later covered from neck to foot in a long white robe with wide-hanging sleeves. From the inelegant bulkiness of the robe, it looked as if the princess had been too modest to shed the voluminous bath sheet.
“What is your name?”
“John Cameron.”
If it had not been for the real danger in the situation, John might have enjoyed the novelty of seeing inside the forbidden palace. The royal harem—it was such a strange mixture of the old and the new, the magnificent and the tawdry.
“Follow me, John Cameron,” she said.
Khadija led John out into the narrow corridor and, making sure that no one was about, she went swiftly down another passage in her sandalled feet and stopped at a small wooden door. She took a key from her sleeve and unlocked the door, then motioned John inside and locked the door behind them. They were in a small, dark hallway with a single, heavily barred window.
“No one is allowed here,” she said. “These stairs lead to my summer kiosk.”
He followed her up the rickety staircase, keeping his head down because of the low head-room. The narrow wooden treads were dusty and worn. Minutes later they arrived, a little breathless, at the top, and entered a hexagonal room with open alcoves on every side. It was simply furnished with a few Persian rugs, a sofa and some small tables piled high with glossy magazines.
“You like?” Khadija asked.
“Very much,” said John.
“This was my mother’s favourite room,” said Khadija. “Here she would catch the summer breezes, and dream of her own country so many miles away across the sea.”
Khadija stood by an open alcove. The view over the rooftops and harbour wall to the sparkling sea was magnificent, the water deepening now to a rich blue as the sun slid rosily away. Laden dhows plied their trade up and down the coast, gliding without effort on the smooth surface, their swooping sails billowed to the light evening breeze, their proud prows elaborately carved.
“My mother was French,” Khadija went on, talking hurriedly, as if she had not spoken to anyone for weeks and was afraid John might suddenly disappear. “My father met her while he was on a grand tour of Europe, and he dazzled her with stories of his palaces, and gave her jewels and called her a princess. Of course, there was no oil then. Oman Said was a simple fishing village and the only wealth was in the pearls from the sea, and piracy. My mother came to live here; and once here she could never get away.”
John imagined the lonely Frenchwoman sitting out the long gruelling hours of heat in this small, high room. “Did your mother teach you to speak such good English?” he asked.
“Yes. She also taught me to speak French and a little Italian,” said Khadija. “But then my mother died.”
“I’m sorry,” said John.
“It was four years ago. The oil was just being found. If only she had waited. Very swiftly there were aeroplanes here, but the spirit of my mother was frail and she could not wait to return to her beloved Paris. Perhaps one day I shall also see this Paris, and the boulevards and the shops,” said Khadija wistfully.
“But surely the sheikh, your father, has his own aeroplanes now? And there is the ruler’s yacht,” said John. “Your family are always making trips to London for shopping, to Switzerland for dental treatment; you have money enough to take you anywhere.”
Khadija sighed deeply. “Ah, that is Princess Miriam you have been hearing about, my father’s new wife. She is different. She is allowed to do anything. But I am my father’s favourite daughter and I am to be brought up in the strict Arab tradition for women. I am only allowed to visit in Shuqrat, or to shop in Oman Said after it is dark. Then I must always be accompanied by Princess Hatijeh Kiusem, my elder sister, and two of my women servants. I am not even allowed to watch television,” she suddenly protested like a small child, “unless Hatijeh decides that the programme is suitable. I am tired of cartoons and talks on cooking!”
The Arab princess’s eyes suddenly brightened. “Is there still a programme called The Saint?” she asked. “Hatijeh would not allow. I thought this man very nice.”
John scraped back into his memory. Watching television dubbed with Arabic voices had been hilarious at first, but tiring. “I don’t really know. I don’t watch television. We haven’t a set in the mess.”
John listened to her chattering on about television. It was enchanting to watch her. She was obviously lonely and pleased to have someone on whom to practise her English. She was the strangest person; so child-like and naive, but with a touch of intriguing sophistication. To be accomplished in three languages and yet never to have been out of Shuqrat. To view the world only from her summer kiosk and through the medium of a television screen. She was surrounded by wealth and magnificence, but lived in story-book seclusion as if she were a prisoner.
“You don’t watch television?” she commented with some amazement. “Then what do you do? Please, I am most interested.”
“Well, there’s work, and swimming and sailing. I am a member of the sailing club. Er, parties—we have lots of parties.” It did not amount to much in words. “We have races every Friday.”
“I have seen all your little sails like handkerchieves fluttering on the water. White and blue. So pretty. I guessed it was races in your little boats. And parties; how nice to go to a party. I would very much like to go to a party. What do you do at a party?” she asked curiously.
“Eat, drink, talk. Nothing much. Dancing, perhaps, to records or a tape.”
“You dance on a tape?”
“No, the music is put on a tape. It is a machine, a tape-recording machine.”
“I didn’t know this. I expect Miriam has this machine. She has everything. She has a juke-box in her room so she can listen to pop records from Cairo all day long. It is a shattering noise.”
She moved away from the alcove. “It will soon be dark, so I will make arrangements for you.” She sighed, enviously. “You work for this big oil company? You are very rich?”
“They pay well enough.”
Now that dusk was approaching, the sun slid rapidly from the heavens, a glowing orange orb that poised only for a few moments on the rim of the horizon. It was possible to watch the sinking movement, the sky shot with streaks of gold and red and purple, before the glowing profile plunged into the dark sea, dropping a curtain of darkness on to the land.
John watched from an alcove as the lights of Oman Said flickered on—the neon advertisements of Hassan’s Cold Store and Au Bin Ali’s, and the single string of Street lighting along the main shopping Street; the fairy lights round the mosques; street traders lighting their charcoal embers to cook kebabs in the open; and the brightly coloured bulbs topping every wall and roof of the sheikh’s palace so that it resembled the Blackpool illuminations.
He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and Khadija came back into the kiosk, folds of material over her arm. She was followed by a small, dark creature, swathed from head to foot in black clothing and wearing a heavy leather mask. This smaller woman was carrying a silver tray, which she put quickly onto a low table and scuttled away, not even looking at John.
John looked at Khadija in askance.
“It is all right,” said Khadija reassuringly. “She is Is-if, my maid. She will say nothing.”
Is-if disappeared down the stairs like a black shadow. Khadija knelt by the tray and said “Please to take of refreshment.”
“I ought to go. It’s dark now,” said John, suddenly nervous. Khadija’s dark eyes cooled fractionally. “It is not polite to refuse Arab hospitality,” she said.
“Co
ffee then, please,” said John hastily. So much depended on the whim of this Arab princess. If she wanted him to go through the rites of drinking gahwa, then he had no choice.
Khadija poured him a thimbleful of the minted gahwa from a beautiful silver Arabic coffee pot. It was steaming hot and refreshing. John saw that on the tray was also a crystal glass of iced sherbet and, incongruously, a large can of American orange juice with a hole punctured in the top with a plastic straw sticking out. There was a dish of sugar-covered sweetmeats. Was he expected to get through the lot?
Apparently not, for Khadija picked up the glass of sherbet and delicately sipped it. John went through the ritual of drinking three cups of gahwa, with murmurs of appreciation and praise to his host, the Sheikh.
Khadija offered him the dish of sweetmeats, and he took a sugar almond. She poked among the assortment and selected a piece of Turkish delight for herself. Then she stood up, and motioning to him to cup his hands together, she poured eaude-Cologne into his hands from a large bottle of 4711. He stood there, appalled, the scent leaking between his fingers onto the floor. Swiftly she filled her own hands, then clapped her hands together and washed them, flinging the excess droplets out of an alcove. John copied her, amused. The room reeked of the pungent Cologne.
“Please to put on,” said Khadija, shyly. She indicated the pile of clothes she had brought in.
John struggled into the long Arab robe, and put the fine white lawn kaffiyah on his head. Khadija checked that the black agal was in place.
“Please make sure your yellow hair is out of sight,” she said. Then she handed him a small dish of brown walnut juice. “Your face is sun-brown, but not like an Arab.”
John stained his face with the juice and then stood up, feeling a fool, but Khadija did not seem to find his appearance amusing. He only hoped it would all wash off.
“Yes,” she said, regarding him gravely. “You make good Arab. Now, Is-if will take you to the Gate of the Dead.”
“My jeep is parked by the sea wall.”
“Is-if will take you. You follow her.”
Now that the moment to leave had come, John did not know what to say. What did one say to an Arab princess—something flowery?
“Good-bye,” he said, holding out his hand. “And thank you.”
Khadija’s long lashes swept down across her cheeks. She stepped back and bowed her head. She stood quite still, waiting for him to go. But as she waited, she was taking in every detail of his appearance. Her demure stance hid a rush of eagerness that was difficult for her to contain.
She had spoken to a man! And an Englishman at that. And how naturally they had conversed, as if she were a European woman and not an Arab princess.
It had all been so exhilarating and a little frightening at the same time. She wanted him to stay and talk some more, for there was so much she could ask him. But it was not safe. If he were found in the royal harem, he would be terribly punished.
John dropped his hand awkwardly and went down the narrow stairs, the long robe tangling round his ankles, and half-blinded by the kaffiyah.
Is-if was waiting for him. She beckoned briefly and hurried down the corridor. John chased after her, not wanting to lose sight of his guide. He resisted the temptation to hitch up the robe and run. He tried to compose his face into an expression of Arab dignity.
There seemed to be a great deal of activity in the harem now that it was cool and dark. He heard shrill feminine voices, and faintly smelt cooking. Figures in brightly patterned gowns glided in and out of the shadows.
They came to a less well-tended part of the palace grounds: a sombre courtyard with drooping creeper and some broken pots. A high door in the wall was black with age, and Is-if struggled with the rusty bolts. John went to help her, but this threw the little creature into a flurry of agitation, so John stepped back and left her to pant and heave.
She pulled open the door and John stepped out into freedom, wondering where he would find himself. He seemed to be on a stony patch of ground, somewhere on the edge of Oman Said, looking out to the desert. Nearby were some old ruined houses. He had no idea where he was.
Is-if darted in front of him, hurrying down the track, her gown flapping like a giant black moth. John strode after her, trying to keep her in sight as she led him through a maze of little back streets. She went very fast, as if she did not trust him and was only too anxious to complete her task and return to the palace.
Suddenly John recognised part of the sea wall. There was Hassan’s Cold Store ahead, and his jeep, still parked there, a solitary black shape. He looked about but Is-if had already disappeared.
John climbed into the familiar driving seat and sank wearily against the back of the bench. He pulled off the headcloth and the agal and ran his fingers through his hair, not surprised to find it damp with perspiration. He was lucky to be alive, though he was not safe yet. The sooner he was rid of these robes and back at the mess, the better. There was no knowing what Arab guards might suddenly leap out of the shadows and drag him off.
He stuffed the robe into the back of the jeep and dug into his pockets for the ignition key. The pocket felt strangely empty, and he wondered why. Then he remembered the scruffy brown paper parcel given him by the jeweller, and realised that it had gone. He had lost the gold necklace which he had bought for his mother.
He dismissed all thoughts of looking for it. He could have lost it anywhere—in the souk, in the royal palace, or in any one of the narrowed shuttered streets down which he had followed Is-if.
He threw the jeep into gear and reversed. He would just have to buy his mother something else.
The main street was busy with locals taking the night air and buying their supper from the kebab stalls or from huge steaming dishes of rice being cooked on the sidewalks.
He drove carefully through the meandering pedestrians, cyclists, goats and donkeys. A sheikh’s car in front stopped abruptly. The driver leaned his elbow on the window frame to talk to a friend who was also passing a leisurely evening in the middle of the road.
At last John was out on the open road to Walhid el Said and he could put his foot down on the accelerator. The dust shot up behind him.
He felt hot and filthy, and reeked of Cologne. He had missed his afternoon shower and change of clothes by going straight to the souk. He must have looked like a ruffian to the princess. It was certainly a wonder she had not called the guards. Why had she helped him? Perhaps he had reminded her a little of The Saint on television, and that was enough to turn the whole episode into a thrilling adventure. Poor, bored princess, shut up in her marble palace.
John was surprised to find about a dozen cars parked outside the mess where he lived with the other unmarried engineers on the pumping station. Lights were on everywhere, and he could hear strains of Latin-American dance music. His party had started without him.
As he went into the hall, he nearly knocked into Sheila, who was coming out of the kitchen with a tray of sandwiches. She was in a cool, white silk party dress, her long fair hair hanging loosely round her shoulders.
“Hello,” she said. “You’re just in time for a party. It’s being thrown by a certain John Cameron, but the host is absent. Good heavens, John! Whatever’s the matter with your face?”
“Nothing.” He strode passed her. “I just need a shower.”
“Where have you been? Everyone’s been waiting ages.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“I suppose you were abducted by a wild young sheikh and dragged off to his hunting lodge as a political hostage,” Sheila laughed.
“Something like that,” he muttered, ripping off his shirt.
“You stink of perfume!”
“I know. I know!” said John angrily.
He went into the bathroom and slammed the door. He stood under the luke-warm shower and let his anger wash away down the drain. The stain on his face came off with soap, and the dirty brown bubbles eddied round his bare feet. He turned off t
he shower and wrapped a towel round his middle.
Outside the bathroom, Sheila was waiting with a glass of cold beer.
“Here you are, sailor,” she said. “You sound as if you need this.”
“Sorry I shouted at you,” said John. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s your own beer.”
John padded into the mess lounge to say hello to his guests, leaving wet footprints on the tiled floor.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “But it doesn’t look as if you have missed me.”
“Didn’t know it was a fancy-dress party,” someone laughed. John grinned and tucked the towel more firmly round his waist. The room was already half full of people drinking and dancing. Someone had put plates of food out; probably Sheila—their houseboy would not have had the sense. John went into his bedroom to put on a clean shirt and slacks.
Sheila was coming in from outside, the houseboy following her with his arms full of the tinned stuff John had bought earlier that afternoon from the Cold Store. She looked at him strangely.
“I’ll be out to help you in a moment,” said John.
“We’ve got everything out of the jeep,” she said, and hesitated, as if she was going to ask John something. Then she changed her mind and turned into the kitchen. John followed her and started opening tins of cocktail sausages.
“This is very good of you to help,” he said.
“I had a feeling your party was going to be hopelessly disorganised,” said Sheila. “But I certainly didn’t reckon on the host turning up an hour late.”
But John was not going to be led into any explanations.
“Come on, that’s enough work. We can safely leave the rest of it for Ali to dish out. Let’s go and dance,” he said.
The bachelors’ mess was a large, low, square bungalow, with rooms all round the outside and a courtyard in the middle where the men played table-tennis in the cooler weather. Someone had rigged up coloured lights borrowed from the Beach Club, and they gave the austere courtyard a more festive look. Couples were sitting on the steps drinking, and others were dancing.
The Weeping Desert Page 3
