The Hidden Oasis

by Paul Sussman

  She came to the bedroom last. Draped from a hook behind the door was Alex’s old suede travelling jacket – Christ, how many years had she had that? Freya wrapped her arms around it and pressed her face into the worn material, then went over to the bed and sat down. On the bedside table were three books: The Physics of Blown Sand and Desert Dunes, by R.A. Bagnold; The Heliopolitan Tomb of Imti-Khentika, by Hassan Fadawi – since when had Alex been interested in Egyptology? – and, most poignantly, Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, the battered, dog-eared copy that had once belonged to their father. Three books and, also, three photographs: one of their parents; one of a handsome, dark-haired man, something vaguely academic-looking in his round spectacles and corduroy jacket; one …

  She leant forward and lifted this third photo. It was of her, Freya, smiling uncomfortably and clutching the climbing world’s highest accolade, a Golden Piton award. She’d only won it last year so God knows how Alex had got hold of the photo. There it was, though, with a second, smaller photo tucked over it in the corner of the frame – a passport-booth shot of the two sisters, taken when they were in their teens, pulling faces at the camera and laughing. She clutched the photo to her chest, eyes blurring with tears.

  ‘I miss you,’ she whispered.

  Later, much later, when she had composed herself, Freya left the house and walked out onto the desert. Climbing to the top of the nearest dune, she sat down cross-legged on the sand. For a while she gazed at the sun as it inched its way down towards the western horizon, then she pulled out the crumpled envelope with the Egypt postmark and opened out the letter inside. The last letter Alex had written her. ‘To my beloved sister Freya,’ she read.

  CAIRO – THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY

  At the end of the afternoon, having completed his day’s lectures – Advanced Hieroglyphs, Theory and Practice in Field Archaeology, Ancient Egyptian Literature and, filling in for someone on annual leave, English for Beginners – Flin slipped into ‘Interesting’ Alan Peach’s office to try to find out more about the latter’s recent encounter with Hassan Fadawi.

  ‘Apparently Mubarak himself called for early release,’ Peach said distractedly, eyes focused on the desk in front of him where he was piecing together the fragmented sherds of a large earthenware pot. ‘Past services to Egyptology and all that. Still, even three years is bad enough. Would you … ?’

  He nodded towards a tube of Duco Cement sitting on the corner of the desk. Flin removed the cap and passed it over. Peach ran a thin line of the adhesive along the edge of a sherd and pressed it firmly against another, holding the two pieces together while they bonded.

  ‘He’ll never work again, of course,’ he went on. ‘Not after what he did. Still can’t think what on earth possessed him. Absolute tragedy. Brilliant man. Really knew his pottery.’

  He turned the fragments back and forth underneath his desk lamp, making sure they were smoothly aligned.

  ‘Bedja mould?’ Flin hazarded, knowing that the best, and indeed only way to keep his colleague in the conversation was to humour him with chat about his beloved ceramics. Peach nodded, laying the glued fragments carefully on the table and holding up another piece of the pot.

  ‘From the workers’ village at Giza,’ he said. ‘Take a look at this.’

  The sherd was stamped with a badly faded cartouche, the hieroglyphic signs – sun disc, djed pillar, horned viper – barely visible.

  ‘Djedefre,’ read Flin.

  ‘Apart from the boat pit cartouches, the only direct mention of Khufu’s son ever found at Giza,’ beamed Peach. ‘Sexy or what!’

  ‘Very sexy,’ agreed Flin.

  He gave it a moment while Peach laid aside the inscribed fragment and started to work through the other pieces searching for matches, then:

  ‘So what else did he say?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Fadawi. When you bumped into him. What else did he say?’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  Peach seemed slightly nonplussed by the question, as though he had thought that particular line of conversation over and done with.

  ‘Well to be honest he was rambling a bit. Looked absolutely dreadful, poor man, thin as a rake. You know how fastidious he always was about his appearance, bit of a ladies’ man by all accounts – I think playboy’s the technical term although I wouldn’t know myself. Anyway, to look at him now – aha!’

  He held up two more sherds, the jagged edge of one marrying perfectly with that of the other.

  ‘Fadawi,’ coaxed Flin, trying to keep him to the point in hand.

  ‘What? Oh yes, yes. Kept going on about how he was innocent. How it was all a misunderstanding, that he’d been framed. Sad, really. I mean from what I heard the evidence was pretty damning. Even had some Tutankhamun stuff by all accounts. I just can’t imagine what possessed him.’

  He shook his head and, leaning forward, trailed a snail-like streak of glue along the side of one of the sherds, clamping it against the other and, as before, holding them under the lamp to ensure the connection was neat.

  ‘Did he mention me?’

  Flin tried to keep the question casual, matter-of-fact.

  ‘Hmm?’ Peach was squinting at the join, turning it back and forth.

  ‘Did he mention me?’ Flin repeated, louder.

  ‘Yes he did, as it happens.’

  Peach’s eyes flicked up and then down again.

  ‘Said some rather unpleasant things, actually. Very unpleasant. I mean I know it was you who blew the whistle and all that, but …’

  He trailed off as he realized the join was uneven. With an annoyed click of the tongue he leant right into the lamp and delicately tried to ease the pieces into alignment.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Flin.

  No response.

  ‘What did Fadawi say, Alan?’

  ‘I really don’t think I want to repeat that sort of language here,’ muttered his colleague, driving the sherds hard against each other. ‘He’d got himself rather worked up and – oh sod it!’

  The sherds had come apart in his hand. He threw an annoyed look across the desk as if to say ‘If you weren’t distracting me with damn fool questions that wouldn’t have happened’ and reached for the tube of Duco. Before he could grasp it Flin leant forward, picked it up and moved it out of the way, forcing Peach to look up at him.

  ‘What did he say, Alan?’

  Their eyes held, then, with an exasperated sigh, Peach laid the two fragments on the table and sat back in his chair.

  ‘If the rumours I heard were true, pretty much what he said to you in court when they sentenced him. I’m sure you remember what that was.’

  Flin certainly did remember. How could he forget?

  ‘I’ll kill you, Brodie!’ Fadawi had screamed. ‘I’ll cut off your balls and kill you, you filthy treacherous bastard!’

  ‘I wouldn’t take it too personally,’ said Peach.

  ‘How the hell else am I supposed to take it?’

  ‘Well I’m sure he didn’t mean it. He’s an archaeologist, after all, not a gangster. Well, an ex-archaeologist. Never work again after what he did. Really can’t think what on earth possessed him. Can I … ?’

  He indicated the Duco. Flin passed it over and Peach bent down over the table again.

  ‘Are you going to Donald’s book launch tonight?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Should be quite a jolly affair, provided that bloody boyfriend of his doesn’t turn up.’

  Flin shook his head, and rose to his feet.

  ‘Got a 5 a.m. flight down to Dakhla. Enjoy.’

  He raised a hand in farewell and made for the door.

  ‘Mentioned something about an oasis.’

  Flin stopped and turned. Peach was still hunched over his pot, apparently oblivious to the effect this throwaway comment had had.

  ‘Couldn’t make much sense of it, to be honest,’ he continued, absorbed in his work. ‘Gabbling he was, very emotional. Claimed he’d found something. Or was it knew somethi
ng? Can’t remember exactly. One of the two. About an oasis, anyway. And wasn’t going to tell anyone and that would be his revenge. Very worked up, he was, very emotional. And thin as a rake. Tragic when you think about it. Did I ever tell you about the Second Dynasty hieratic wine jar dockets from Abydos? Thief or not, he certainly knew his pottery, you’ve got to give him that.’

  Peach looked up, but Flin was no longer there.

  DAKHLA

  Sitting on top of the dune, a sudden, sharp breeze causing the sand around her to whisper and hiss, Freya went through Alex’s last letter, her sister’s voice ringing clear inside her head.

  Dakhla Oasis, Egypt

  3 May

  To my beloved sister Freya,

  I begin with those words because although it has been many years since we last spoke or saw each other, and there has been much pain and anger, they have never for one moment ceased to be true; nor have you for one moment ceased to be in my thoughts. You are my little sister, and whatever has passed between us, whatever has been said and done, my love has always been there, and always will be.

  I want you to know this, Freya, because lately I have come to realize the future is an uncertain place, full of doubt and shadow, and if we do not speak our hearts now, in the present, the chance to do so might be lost for ever. So I say it again – I love you, little sis. More than I can possibly express; more than you could ever possibly know.

  It’s late evening now, and there’s a full moon up in the sky; the biggest, brightest moon you ever saw: so clear you can make out the craters and seas on its surface, so big you feel you only have to reach out a hand and you could touch it. Do you remember that story Dad used to tell? About how the moon was actually a door, and if you climbed up there and opened it you could pass right through the sky into another world? Do you remember how we used to dream of what it was like, that secret world – a beautiful, magic place full of flowers and waterfalls and birds that could talk? I can’t explain it, Freya, not clearly, but just recently I’ve looked through that door and glimpsed the other side, and it’s just as magical as we ever imagined it. More magical. When you’ve seen that secret world you can’t help but feel hope. Somewhere, little sis, there’s always a door, and beyond it a light, however dark things might appear.

  There’s so much I want to say, so much I want to tell you, to share and describe, but it’s late and I’m tired and I don’t have the energy I used to. Before I stop, however, there is one thing I want to ask of you – have wanted to ask for many years now – and that is your forgiveness. What happened, happened, and however great my pain at the time I should have seen it coming and done more to prevent it, to protect you. Should, also, have had the courage to reach out sooner and say what I am now saying. The fault is mine, Freya, and now the years have passed and the pain is locked in and I have not been the sister I ought to have been. I hope, in some small way, this letter can make amends.

  I shall finish here. Please, don’t be sad. Life is good, and there is so much beauty in the world. Be strong, climb high, and know that whatever happens, wherever you are, I will always, in one way or another, be there with you. I love you so much.

  Alex xxx

  P.S. The enclosed flower is a Sahara Orchid. It is, I am told, very rare. Treasure it, and think of me.

  Wiping the tears from her eyes Freya laid the letter on the dune top and removed the flower from the envelope; its dried petals were thin as rice paper and coloured a deep, golden orange, like the sands around her. She gazed at it, then, folding it carefully inside the letter, wrapped her arms around her knees and watched as the sun inched its way slowly down towards the horizon, a soft breeze hissing across the sand, the desert rippling and swirling away into the distance like an expanse of crumpled taffeta.

  They buried her early the next morning, not far from her house, in a grove of blossoming acacia trees, right on the very edge of the little oasis. There were flowers on the ground – zinnias and periwinkles – and a smell of honeysuckle in the air, and, from somewhere beyond the grove, the soft plash of water trickling into a cistern. It was, thought Freya, one of the most beautiful, peaceful places she had ever been.

  There was only a small group present, which is how Alex would have wanted it: herself, Zahir, Dr Rashid from the hospital, Molly Kiernan and a handsome, slightly dishevelled man in a crumpled corduroy jacket, whom she recognized from the photo on Alex’s bedside table – Flin Brodie, as he introduced himself. There was a scatter of local people too. Farmers mostly, come to pay their respects, hanging back from the main group, and three Bedouin women, one of them Zahir’s wife, dressed in traditional costume – black robes, headscarves, intricate silver jewellery. As Alex’s coffin was lowered into the ground they came forward and started to sing – ‘Aloosh’, Zahir explained, a Bedouin love song ‘about very beautiful woman’. Their clear, nasal voices wove in and out of each other, rising and falling, one moment low and barely audible, the next swooping upwards so that the whole grove echoed to the music. There were no words to the song, or at least none that Freya could make out, just a winding thread of sound that nonetheless, in the way the tune shifted and contrasted, sometimes dark, sometimes light, seemed to tell a story she could understand: of love and loss, joy and pain, hope and despair. She felt Molly Kiernan’s hand reach out and clasp hers, squeezing it tight, the song wafting over and around them until it dropped away and faded into silence, leaving just the tinkle of water and, from above, the low twitter of a pair of hoopoes.

  For a moment everyone just stood, lost in their own thoughts. Then, releasing Freya’s hand, Kiernan cleared her throat and stepped forward to the head of the grave.

  ‘Freya has asked me to say a few words,’ she said, throwing a glance first at Freya, and then Flin, who was gazing down at the coffin. ‘I promise that it will be just a few words, because as everyone who was privileged enough to know Alex will be aware, she hated fuss and chatter.’

  Although soft, her voice seemed to fill the entire glade.

  ‘Thirty years ago now, I myself lost someone I loved very much. My husband, as it happens. In that dark time two things helped me through. The first was the love and support of my friends. I hope, Freya, you can feel our love here today in this special place, both for Alex, and for you too. We are here if you need us, however, whenever, wherever.’

  She cleared her throat again, fingering the gold cross at her neck.

  ‘The other thing that eased my pain in that time of sorrow was the Holy Bible and the words of our Lord Jesus Christ. I would quote from it now, but I know Alex wasn’t a believer, and although the love of Jesus is universal, I won’t insult her memory by dwelling on sentiments with which she herself did not feel comfortable.’

  It was fleeting and barely noticeable, but as she said this there was the faintest tightening around her mouth, as if of disapproval.

  ‘Instead,’ she went on, ‘I would like to read you something that was close to Alex’s heart, and that is a poem by Walt Whitman.’

  She fumbled in the pocket of her jacket, pulled out a printed sheet and slipped on a pair of spectacles.

  ‘O Me, O Life,’ she read, holding the sheet out in front of her.

  O Me! O Life! of the questions of these recurring,

  Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,

  Of myself forever reproaching myself (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

  Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,

  Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

  Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

  The question, O me! So sad, recurring – what good amid these, O me, O Life?

  Answer

  That you are here – that life exists and identity

  That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

  She folded the sheet and removed
her glasses, wiping an index finger across her eye.

  ‘There is so much I could say about Alex. Her beauty, her intelligence, her courage, her sense of adventure. I think Walt Whitman puts it best, though, when he talks about contributing a verse. Alex contributed a verse to all our lives, a very special verse, one that enriched and uplifted us all. Sister, friend, colleague – the world is a poorer place without her. Thank you, Alex. We miss you.’

  She returned to Freya’s side and took her hand again as two of the local men stepped forward with shovels and started filling the grave. The thud of dirt on coffin echoed dully around the grove, a harsh, discordant sound at odds with the otherwise idyllic atmosphere. For a brief moment Freya’s eyes met Flin’s, the latter giving the faintest of nods as if to convey that he both understood and shared in the grief she was feeling, before the two of them looked away again. The grave was rapidly filled until all that was left was a raised rectangle of sandy earth surrounded by flowers.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Freya whispered.

  Afterwards Dr Rashid made his excuses and hurried off, explaining that he was on call and needed to get back to the hospital. Most of the local people drifted away too, leaving just Freya, Molly, Flin, Zahir and a young, bearded man whom Zahir introduced as his brother Said. As the five of them walked back along the path to Alex’s house, Flin came up beside Freya.