John took Sheila in his arms and they began to move slowly to the music. Sheila came just up to his chin, the perfect height for a woman, and the fragrance from her soft fair hair was delicious. She followed his steps effortlessly, and dancing with her was all very, very pleasant. He wondered what Khadija would think of Western dancing, so close and intimate, body against body. She would probably be shocked. He grinned to himself at the thought.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing special. Just a stray thought.”
An improvised bar had been set up in a corner of the lounge and Don Parker was acting bar-man. When the music finished. Sheila took John’s hand to go and get a drink. She felt him wince, and she turned up his hand to see why.
“That’s some burn,” she said. She sniffed cautiously. “And it’s reeking of Cologne. John, surely you know you don’t put anything on a first-degree burn except cold water? The alcohol in the Cologne might sterilise it to some extent, but—oh well, let’s clean it off and put on a dry dressing. You’d better come up to the hospital tomorrow in case it’s infected.”
“Yes, miss. Certainly, miss,” said John obediently.
While Sheila bent over his hand, John suddenly thought of the Arab princess and her stunning dark beauty. What a stir she would cause if she appeared at a European social function; she would make every Englishwoman look washed out and faded. Perhaps when he came back from his leave, he would try to contact her. Then he swiftly knocked that idea on the head. She was the ruling sheikh’s favourite daughter, kept in complete seclusion; no man was allowed to see her. The sooner he forgot the whole incident, the better.
But it was not easy to forget the beautiful princess. As he lay on his bed in the early hours of the morning, hot and sleepless despite the air-conditioner noisily belting cold air onto his bare chest, his thoughts kept returning to Khadija. As he fell asleep, he was remembering her face uncovered and pearly with moisture as he had first seen her.
The last five days before John left for England were so hectic he did not have time to think again of his encounter with the princess. His relief arrived from England—a pale intense young man called Arnold Whittaker, who was immediately knocked out by the heat and an upset tummy, and retired to a darkened room to sip iced water.
John felt hardened and experienced beside the pallid young man. Had he looked like that when he first came out to the Persian Gulf? This kind of life in the desolation of the desert and the cruel climate could only toughen a man. The engineering experience he had gained was invaluable, but John realised for the first time that he had gained far more than just experience.
He packed his gifts for his family and bought a brass coffee pot for his mother. There were another couple of farewell parties, one given by Brett Stevenson and his wife, and the other by the sailing club down on the beach.
The party on the beach was a barbecue, with steaks and sausages cooked on charcoal fires. They had prepared big bowls of tomatoes and cos lettuce, and plates of a Lebanese dish called hamousse, which was made of mashed chick peas and olive oil and garlic, and was delicious scooped up on a chunk of bread.
They swam in the dark, the phosphorus glowing luminously on the water and on their bodies. The sea was perfect, still warm from the day’s sunshine but cool enough to be refreshing.
The sailing club’s portion of beach was strictly defined by order of the Ruler. High brick walls topped with broken glass cut across the sand, and stretched out to sea for some yards. But when the tide was out, this did not stop the curious Arab menfolk from wading out to sea to catch a glimpse of the European women in their immodest swimsuits and brazen bikinis. Bikinis were frowned upon by the sailing club committee, but a few of the younger wives could not resist the sun-blessed opportunity to get a more overall tan.
John and Sheila helped themselves to plates of food and then sat on the steps to eat. The Arabian night sky was magnificent, the stars twinkling with a nearness and brightness that is never seen in the northern hemisphere. And the blackness was velvety, deep and glowing, like a vast jeweller’s cloth.
“I can’t stay too late,” said John. “I’m on the 7:00 a.m. plane tomorrow, and I still haven’t finished my packing.”
“I could help you,” Sheila offered.
“I wouldn’t get much packing done if you came back with me,” John grinned; he was much too aware of her bare brown arms occasionally brushing his as she forked her supper.
“I expect you’ve a girlfriend waiting anxiously for you at home,” said Sheila, hating herself for fishing.
“No one really. My mother has for years been trying to pair me off with the daughter of one of her friends on the local council. A family joke; only my mother is serious.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Not as far as I can remember. Rather a lot of puppy fat, but a nice enough girl. Mother keeps saying Carol will make someone a wonderful wife, and she’s hoping that someone will be me. I bet she’s even got the wedding planned,” John chuckled.
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” said Sheila.
“I intend to choose my own wife,” said John, with determination in his voice, and Sheila’s heart soared with hope for the first time. The way he said it gave Sheila a glimpse of the other man behind the unromantic cool Englishman who escorted her to parties, but kept his distance and his feelings to himself.
Those words told her that there was a passionate man, a man who, once he found the woman he loved, would never ever let her go. Sheila took comfort from this discovery. John would do what he wanted to do. Nothing, or no one could influence him. She would just have to wait.
“I’ll say good-bye to you here, John,” she said. “I can’t come down to the airport to see you off. I shall be on duty.”
“Are you going already?”
“Yes. Too many late nights kill me when I’m on my feet all day.”
“I’ll drive you back to the hospital.”
“Nonsense. You can’t leave the party! It’s in your honour. Besides, I’ve got my own car with me and I’m taking the other nurses back.”
John stood up and put his arms round her lightly.
“You’re a lovely girl,” he said, kissing her gently on the cheek. “I shall miss you.”
Sheila ran into the women’s changing rooms, brushing away her tears angrily. A lovely girl—as if she were a pet cat or dog. Then her tears turned to sad ones as she thought that tomorrow he would fly three thousand miles away from her. She would miss him far more than he would ever know.
John showered and dried off in the men’s changing rooms, re-buttoning his bright blue shirt as he went outside to see the nurses off in Sheila’s Mini Traveller.
He waved briefly as the stout little car jolted over the stony track. He was not worried about them; the nurses were used to looking after themselves. It was a known fact that the Arabs were most courteous and kind to the girls from the hospital, always eager to find them English brands of soap in the souk and not overcharge, or help push a car that wouldn’t start, or fetch water if a radiator had boiled dry. No, they would be all right.
John strolled for a few minutes outside the club. He did not want to go back to the party. It was not really in his honour; his departure was merely another excuse for a party among those staying on in Shuqrat. Now that his flight time was so near, John was anxious to be gone. He looked up into the sky, his thoughts ahead of the plane.
It was indeed a sky of unparalleled beauty. The stars shone with cut-diamond brilliance and the velvety blackness seemed designed to soothe the aching eyes of the tribesmen living daily in the harsh desert.
One moment John was peacefully looking at the night sky, and the next a blanket was thrown over his head and he found himself struggling furiously inside a damp hairy shroud which enveloped him. He fought and kicked and shouted, but strong arms clamped round his body and he was being dragged away over the dust and stones.
He was heaved roughly over the tail-board
of a truck and landed heavily on his back, jarring his spine. He rolled over, kicking at the loosened folds of the blanket, but immediately he felt a rope pulled over his shoulders and whipped round his arms, pinning them to his sides. He lay there, helpless, panting, the sweat running off him in rivulets.
The truck started off with a crash of gears, lurching over the stones of the uneven track from the beach with very little regard for the unwilling passenger in the back.
John groaned and licked the sweat off his upper lip and tried to keep his face away from the smelly blanket. He could only pray that it was a not-very-funny joke being played on him by that mad Australian, Don Parker. Then he felt himself being prodded by what could only be the butt of a rifle, and a guttural Arab voice saying: “Is he dead?” John realised now that this was no farewell prank.
The ride seemed endless. John lay still, conserving his strength. The truck slowed down and turned, driving over a smoother tarmac surface, then the driver slammed on his brakes and John shot forward into someone’s feet.
He was pulled out of the truck and the blanket was taken off him; the sweet relief of the night air was all he could think about for a moment. Then he noticed that he was standing in a large courtyard surrounded by about a dozen guards, white-robed and nonchalantly sporting rifles and sten guns.
John recognised the tall white columns supporting the turquoise-studded archways of the entrance. This was the new palace of the ruling sheikh, Sheikh Abd-ul Hamid, built with wild extravagance out of the revenue from the oil and closely resembling a Hollywood film set for a million-dollar musical. A wide flight of steps, flanked by cascading fountains, led to a sprawling white palace decorated with domes and minarets and pinnacled towers, all studded with turquoise chips and outlined in gold like some fantastically iced wedding cake.
John found himself being marched up the steps and into the icy coldness of a long entrance hall. He hardly had time to take in the rich furnishings of brocade and silk before he was pushed aside into a small ante-room.
A woman was waiting in the room, a still silent figure in a white silk robe edged with silver braid. Her long black hair hung straight and glossy like a silk curtain to her waist. She turned slowly and looked at John, her dark eyes rimmed with kohl. It was Princess Khadija.
“What’s the meaning of this?” said John angrily. He strode over to her side. “Call these guards off!”
“Hush,” she warned in a whisper. “You are in extreme danger. My father, the sheikh, has discovered you were in the royal harem. He is most angry. Such fury, I have never seen.”
“Will you tell me what’s happening?” John glared.
“You must come with me. You must say and do everything that I tell you. Your life depends on it,” she implored him, her eyes pleading. “Promise me, John Cameron.”
“I’m getting out of here,” said John adamantly.
Khadija’s eyes glistened with tears. “Please do as I say,” she said, her hand lightly for a moment on his arm. “Or at dawn, you will surely die.”
Chapter Three
Before John could speak, a flurry of women entered the anteroom, their voices shrill and excited, all looking at John with a great deal of giggling and fluttering of hands. They were black-robed and veiled, but the hems of their gowns displayed a riot of gaudy brocades and satins and trails of chiffon.
One woman, taller than the others, with an angular brow, looked at John with penetrating dark eyes. John felt uncomfortable under her hostile gaze. He guessed accurately that this must be the princess’s elder sister, Hatijeh Kuisem.
The women servants began ushering Khadija from the room, and she turned and beckoned John to follow her.
“Look here,” he began.
Immediately he was surrounded by guards, and he had no choice but to follow Khadija. He was taken along a wide corridor and into a room of immense size, designed in the most elegant proportions with high graceful windows looking out to sea and elaborately carved screens and archways hiding the barrage of air-conditioners which hummed continuously and kept the room almost icily cool.
But the room was decorated and furnished with complete disregard for uniformity of period or taste. It was a mixture of Turkish, Persian and the worst and best of European styles. Valuable Louis XV furniture, gilded Italian pieces, heavily stuffed Edwardian sofas, brocaded divans of uncertain origin, silk and tasselled curtains, small fretwork tables, several television sets, and a water-cooler cabinet which no doubt dispensed Coca-Cola.
John recognised the elderly man who sat at the head of the reception room slowly smoking a Turkish cigarette in a long ebony holder. He had a dark, thin face, and the beaked nose of an Arab aristocrat. A silver fringe of beard softened the hard line of his jaw. His robes were of the finest cloth and a gold agal held his white lawn headcloth in place.
John had seen the ruler of Shuqrat once before, when the pumping station had been honoured by a royal visit. It had not been easy to catch a glimpse of the sheikh, for he had been surrounded by his entourage and bodyguards, but afterwards Brett Stevenson had said that the old man knew what he was talking about when it came to oil.
The sheikh glanced at John with a look of flickering distaste. The Arabs did not hold human life sacred and the sheikh’s expression said only too clearly that he would prefer to dispose of John at dawn in the normal way, rather than go through whatever farce was now about to take place.
John took a quick look round the room. There were about thirty men ranged along the walls on benches, awaiting either an audience, or members of the sheikh’s entourage. It must be some kind of court, for many were elders and men of some importance, as well as the usual excess of bodyguards. Silver censers of rose-water stood on a low table, and two women took these up and began flicking the perfume into the air.
John felt stifled by the heavy perfume and the incense pungently burning in silver jars. He sought Khadija’s eyes for some explanation, but she was standing apart from him, segregated by her women, lashes downcast, hands modestly folded together.
She did not like to see him thus, with armed guards on either side. But he looked more angry than scared, and that was in his favour. Her father would at least respect him for his defiance.
John was head and shoulders taller than the two Arabs who poked their rifle butts into his ribs. He noticed the weapons were British, fairly new and handled with complete disregard for the safety of anyone in the room.
A man with some high office began to chant from a book in high-pitched Arabic, which John had no hope of following at all. Then another took up the chanting, and the men in the room droned some sort of answer. All the while the women kept silent and apart.
The room was hazy with smoke from the burners, and above the smoke the bulbs in the magnificent chandeliers flickered; the air-conditioners whined on a disturbed note. John recognised all the signs of an electricity failure and steeled himself to make a run for it.
Two tough, swarthy guards closed in on him, so that the three stood shoulder to shoulder. John broke out in a sweat despite the chilliness of the room. The light grew dimmer.
The generator recovered abruptly and the lights blazed on again with renewed brilliance. The chanting faltered, but the sheikh flicked a long stem of ash onto the carpet and this movement seemed to be a sign for the men to link arms and begin a curious swaying dance, circling the room in a slow jig.
John found himself being pushed into a kind of ancient procession, and rose-water sprinkled on him. He began to protest, but a sharp rifle butt in his ribs choked his words, and he fancied he saw a gleam of satisfaction in the sheikh’s hooded eyes. He scowled at the old man, determined to be finished with this pantomime, whatever the consequences.
Then suddenly it was all over. The chanting ceased and the men began to shuffle into another room, led by Sheikh Abd-ul Hamid. John was escorted by the guards.
A magnificent feast lay on the floor, entirely covering the centre of the carpet—huge platters heaped with ric
e, some boiled, some fried, some saffron coloured; whole sheep roasted, chickens and curried meats; bowls of spicy tomatoes and a vegetable called ladies’ fingers fried in batter; flaps of Arab bread; and countless bowls of tinned peaches and cherries and Libby’s mixed fruit salad.
John felt a measure of relief. This looked like a fairly normal mutton-grab which only men attended, and was part of the pattern of Arab life. European officials were often invited to these feasts, and as long as they remembered to eat only with the right hand, they could not go wrong. He went, more willingly, to a place at the head of the table, beside the sheikh. They sat on a profusion of brocade cushions. There was no conversation, but all fell to the meal with enjoyment.
The sheikh pulled off a special piece of succulent mutton and handed it to John. It was the first time their eyes had met and held. But the sheikh was being no more than a polite host and his expression was still one of hostility.
“Thank you,” said John in Arabic, and took the steaming meat. This must mean he was the principal guest. First a prisoner and now the honoured guest. It was very confusing.
Glasses of iced fresh lime juice helped a little to clear John’s fuzzy head. It was beginning to ache from tension and the heavy atmosphere. He sat back at last, unable to swallow another mouthful. This seemed to be a sign for the others to stop eating, and they washed their fingers in bowls brought by servants, and began to compliment the sheikh on the excellence of the meal.
The sheikh rose and, turning to John, began to speak to him in Arabic. His voice was hoarse, as if the vocal chords were damaged by years of shouting into the empty spaces of the desert.
“Khadija is my favourite daughter,” John managed to translate, but he was not quite so sure of the next sentence. “You treat Khadija well. If you do not, I will send fifty men to cut you up into small pieces.”
“Inshallah,” said John. “God willing.” He could think of no other reply.
The Weeping Desert Page 4
