The Hidden Oasis

by Paul Sussman

  He raised a hand, swiping at a mosquito that was zinging around his head. Something in his eyes, in the fractional tightening of his smile, suggested a momentary uncertainty on his part, like an actor who has suddenly lost track of where he is in a soliloquy. It was fleeting, and almost immediately his smile broadened and the frown disappeared.

  ‘Yes, yes, an absolutely fascinating woman. And a beautiful one as well. Although I must say, her sister is even more so. Freya, you say?’

  ‘Just leave it,’ repeated Flin, his voice now a threatening growl.

  Fadawi ignored him, his attention zeroing in on Freya.

  ‘I’m so sorry we have to meet in such unpleasant circumstances,’ he said, swiping at the mosquito again before bringing his hand down onto his head and combing the fingers through his hair. ‘Had I known you were coming I would have made rather more of an effort with my appearance. As you can see, I’m not quite at my sartorial best. May I?’

  He stepped forward and, taking Freya’s hand, raised it to his lips, kissing her fingertips.

  ‘Divine,’ he murmured. ‘Quite divine.’

  ‘That’s enough, Hassan!’

  Flin pushed Fadawi’s hand away and took Freya’s arm.

  ‘Come on, we’ve done everything we can here.’

  He tried to steer her back towards the Cherokee, but she shook her arm free, standing her ground.

  ‘Please,’ she pleaded. ‘We need your help. I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through these last three years, and I know we have no right to ask, but I’m asking anyway. Help us. Tell us about the oasis. Please.’

  Fadawi seemed to be only half listening, his gaze locked onto her breasts, the way they pushed against the slightly too tight material of her shirt and cardigan, the outline of the nipples clearly visible.

  ‘Exquisite,’ he said, eyes moving down to her crotch and then up to her blond hair. ‘I really can’t remember when I last found myself in the company of such an attractive young lady. It was the thing I missed most in Tura, you know, the pleasure of female society: their companionship, their laughter, their beauty. I do so love a beautiful lady. The closest I came in prison was a postcard someone sent me of the naked dancer in the tomb of Nakht, which I can assure you was a very poor substitute for the real thing.’

  He threw a half-glance at Flin and there was something sly in his look, like a hunter drawing an animal into a trap, excited by his prey’s imminent suffering.

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s been a very long time since I saw a real woman naked,’ he continued, running his tongue across the underside of his top lip, nostrils flaring slightly. ‘Hips, breasts, private—’

  ‘Stop this!’ shouted Flin. ‘You hear me? Stop this now. I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but we’re not standing here listening—’

  ‘You like her, don’t you?’ the Egyptian purred.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You like her.’

  Fadawi was grinning, the sly look now more pronounced.

  ‘You really like her.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You feel for her, you’re attracted to her, you …’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Flin seized Freya’s arm again, more roughly this time, pushing her back towards the Jeep. Fadawi called after them.

  ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know. About the oasis. What I found. I’ll tell you everything.’

  Flin stopped and turned, his hand still gripping Freya’s arm.

  ‘Where it is, what it is, everything you want,’ said the Egyptian. ‘Only first …’

  He paused, smirking maliciously, then closed the trap.

  ‘… I want to see her naked.’

  Flin’s eyes widened in fury and disgust. His mouth opened, ready to unleash a tirade of abuse. Before he could say anything Freya wrenched her arm from his grip.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  Flin stared at her, aghast.

  ‘The hell you will!’

  ‘Here or in the house?’ she asked, ignoring him, addressing herself to Fadawi.

  ‘Freya, there is no way I’m letting you …’

  ‘Here or inside?’ she repeated.

  Flin seized her arm again.

  ‘You are not—’

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me what I can or cannot do,’ she snapped, pulling herself free and rounding on Flin. ‘You understand? It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘It’s everything to do with me! If I hadn’t told you about it you’d never have heard of the bloody oasis. I will not have you prostituting yourself to some geriatric pervert because of something Molly and I have—’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you. With Molly. With the oasis. With any of it.’ Her face was starting to redden. ‘It’s for Alex. For my sister. My dead, murdered sister. I’m doing this for her, because she wanted to know.’

  ‘If you seriously think …’

  ‘What I think is none of your business! It’s between me and Alex and that’s the end of it!’

  ‘God Almighty, Freya, this is the very last thing Alex would—’

  ‘That’s the end of it,’ she cried, swinging back to Fadawi. ‘So where are we doing this?’

  The Egyptian had stood silently through the argument, grinning, relishing Flin’s discomfort.

  ‘Oh, in the house, I think,’ he chortled. ‘Yes, indoors would definitely be best. Away from prying eyes. Shall we?’

  He held out a hand towards the front door.

  ‘I will not allow you to do this!’ yelled Flin.

  Freya ignored him, nodding at Fadawi and starting across the gravel.

  ‘I will not allow you to do this!’ Flin repeated, jabbing a finger at her. ‘You hear! To hell with the plane, to hell with the oasis. You will not do this!’

  She didn’t reply, just continued up to the house. Fadawi opened the door for her and ushered her inside.

  ‘We might be a little while,’ he said, turning back to Flin. ‘So do feel free to wander around the grounds, try one of the bananas. Although I’d ask you to respect our privacy and not peep through the windows.’

  He grinned triumphantly, savouring the younger man’s outrage, then with a wink and a wave, turned into the house and slammed the door behind him.

  Killing people just wasn’t as much fun as it used to be. That was the conclusion the twins came to as they hammered balls around Girgis’s full-size snooker table, waiting for news of when and where they were next going to be needed. Even torture no longer provided the job satisfaction it once had. Like footballers who have won every trophy there is to win, scaled every height, the hunger just wasn’t there any more. It had, they agreed, all become a bit boring.

  Once it had been so different. They had used to take a real pride in their work. Craftsmen, that’s how they saw themselves, skilled craftsmen. And just as a carpenter will find joy in a perfectly turned chair leg, a glass-blower in a beautifully finished vase, so they too had been passionate about what they did, got a genuine buzz from it. Making that junkie drug dealer eat his own eyeball, feeding the Al-Ahram journalist to the polar bears in Giza Zoo, taking out four separate people in the same day up in Alexandria and still getting home in time to make their omm dinner – these were things that had given them a real sense of fulfilment.

  The magic had been fading for some time, however, and with this current assignment their disillusion had come to a head. Sure the car chase had been fun, and they’d enjoyed cutting up the old pervert down in Dakhla, but flying around the desert looking for a heap of ancient ruins, getting shouted at by that turd Girgis – what the hell was the point of that? They were wasting themselves, no doubt about it. Wasting themselves and wasting their talents.

  Which was why, as they potted the final black and started racking up the balls for a new game, they decided that this would be their last job for Girgis. The time had come to make the break and open up their food stall. They’d thought maybe to leave it a little longer, at l
east until the start of the new football season, but all things considered now seemed as good a moment as any. This one final job and that was the end of it. Aged thirty, they were retiring.

  ‘Should we kill him?’ asked the twin with the flattened boxer’s nose, rattling the reds in their wooden triangle, carefully positioning it just below the pink spot. ‘Girgis. Just to keep things neat.’

  ‘It might be an idea,’ said his brother.

  ‘We don’t want him giving us trouble.’

  ‘Certainly don’t.’

  ‘We’ll finish the job …’

  ‘… it would be unprofessional not to …’

  ‘… then take him out.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  They high-fived, chalked their cue tips and bent low over the table. The brother with the shredded left earlobe slammed the white ball into the reds, sending them careering off in all directions. His twin tapped the cushion with his ring-covered fingers to acknowledge what a good shot he thought it was.

  Just think of it like climbing, Freya told herself as Fadawi propped his shotgun beside the door and led her along a corridor. Executing a particularly difficult move. That’s all this is – just one difficult move. Focus, get on with the job, do what you have to, then get the hell out of here. And if he even thinks of touching you …

  At the end of the corridor Fadawi opened a door and ushered her into a large, brightly lit living room-cum-study. Sofas and armchairs sat at one end, a desk and bookcases at the other. There was a portable cassette recorder on the desk. Going over to it, Fadawi pressed the Play button before taking Freya across to the far side of the room. A mellifluous female voice wafted around them, rising and falling, curiously hypnotic.

  ‘Fairuz,’ the Egyptian explained, adjusting a dimmer switch on the wall to bring the lighting right down. ‘One of the greatest of all Arab singers. Wonderful intonation, don’t you think?’

  Freya shrugged, pushing her hands into the pockets of her jeans, shuffling from foot to foot.

  ‘May I offer you something to drink?’

  She declined, then immediately changed her mind and said yes, she would like something. Fadawi opened a drinks cabinet – antique, by the look of it, exquisitely veneered with banded patterns of light and dark wood – and, removing a bottle with a bright green liquid inside, poured two glasses. ‘Pisang Ambon,’ he said, handing one of the glasses over. ‘Made from the Indonesian green banana. Rather delicious, I think you’ll find, despite the somewhat unflattering name.’

  ‘You don’t have a beer?’

  He shook his head apologetically. Taking the other glass he sat down on one of the sofas, sinking back into the pale pink cushions, his scrawny torso almost exactly the same shade as the material so that it wasn’t immediately obvious where the cushions ended and his skin began.

  ‘Well, well, this is cosy,’ he said, sipping his drink and leering at her. ‘In your own time.’

  Freya sipped her own drink, wincing at the sickly-sweet taste. She suddenly felt very exposed and very self-conscious. And she hadn’t even started stripping yet. Maybe she should have listened to Flin.

  ‘So how do you want to do this?’ she asked, trying to sound more relaxed than she felt.

  Fadawi draped an arm along the back of the sofa.

  ‘However you want to do it. So long as it all comes off …’

  He indicated her clothes.

  ‘… I’m happy to leave the technical details to you.’

  ‘I’m not dancing,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t imagine for one minute you would.’

  ‘And I’m not … doing anything else. I strip, and that’s it.’

  Fadawi looked offended.

  ‘My dear lady, I may be a voyeur, but I am not a rapist. I wish to admire your body, not paw at it.’

  She nodded and took another sip of the liqueur, disliking the taste but needing something to do, some action to calm herself down.

  ‘And you’ll tell us what you know about the oasis. After I’ve finished.’

  ‘I am a man of my word,’ said the Egyptian. ‘Three years in prison has not changed that. You keep your side of the bargain, I will keep mine. You shall know everything. Provided I see everything.’

  He smiled and snuggled even further back into the sofa, his eyes never leaving her. Freya looked up at the ceiling, over towards the door, down at the carpet, anywhere but at him, gathering herself, prolonging things. Then, with a shake of the head and a muttered ‘Allez’, she downed the remainder of her drink and placed the glass on a sideboard.

  ‘OK, let’s get this over with,’ she said.

  She started with her plimsolls, unlacing them and slipping them off followed by her socks. She tucked them into the shoes and, rather unnecessarily, arranged the shoes neatly side by side, their tips pointing towards Fadawi. Next came the cardigan, which she folded and laid on top of the plimsolls – all the while studiously avoiding the Egyptian’s gaze, trying to think of anything other than what she was doing – then her jeans, her long, tanned legs emerging one after the other. Despite the awkwardness of the situation her movements were lithe and graceful; the sound of female singing still echoed from the cassette recorder on the desk.

  That was the easy part. Now she was left with her shirt and her knickers, the final two items, the intimate exposure. She took a deep breath, trying to detach herself even further, take herself out of the room and into some wholly different scenario. For some inexplicable reason the first one that came into her head was the afternoon she and a group of friends had been body-boarding off Bodega Bay north of San Francisco and a great white shark had come gliding past, its dorsal fin slicing the water like the tip of a knife. She latched onto this random memory, withdrawing into it as she turned away from Fadawi and started to unbutton the shirt, recalling how she and her friends had gathered into a protective group and paddled the hundred metres back to shore, the shark all the while circling menacingly around them. She became quite absorbed in the scene, almost meditatively so. Slipping the shirt off her shoulders to reveal her smooth, toned back she bent forward slightly and hooked her thumbs through the waistband of her white knickers, ready to pull them down. It was only as she started to do so, drawing the material over the firm curve of her buttocks and down onto her thigh tops, still lost within her thoughts, that she became aware of a voice behind her. For a second she was thrown, not knowing whether it was real or in her mind, then the shark memory dissipated and she was back in the room.

  ‘Enough,’ came the voice. ‘Stop, please stop.’

  Pulling the knickers up again and curving an arm across her naked breasts she half turned towards the sofa, looking over her shoulder, uncertain what was wrong, what he wanted of her. Fadawi was hunched forward, one hand held up, palm out towards her, the other pressed against his forehead, shielding his eyes. His smile had disappeared. In its place was a sort of bewildered grimace, as if he had just woken from a bad dream.

  ‘I don’t know what I was thinking,’ he mumbled, the teasing jollity of a few moments earlier gone from his voice, which was now frail and quavering. ‘Unforgivable of me, unforgivable. To make you … please, please, put them back on. Cover yourself.’

  He came to his feet and, keeping his gaze averted, walked across the room to the desk. Clicking off the cassette recorder, he stood there with his back to her.

  ‘I just don’t know what I was thinking,’ he kept repeating. ‘Unforgivable of me. Unforgivable.’

  Freya hesitated, then started dressing again, quickly, slipping the shirt on, stepping into the jeans. Although relieved that she would not have to expose herself, she also felt curiously deflated, as if a part of her had actually wanted to go ahead with the strip. Concerned as well, for if Fadawi had changed his mind about this, maybe he’d done the same about the oasis.

  ‘I don’t know what I was thinking,’ was all he seemed able to say. ‘Unforgivable of me. Unforgivable.’

  Freya pulled on her socks and shoe
s and picked up the cardigan. Throwing it over her shoulders, she started to slide a hand into one of the arms only to take the cardigan off again. Going over to Fadawi, she laid it over his shoulders, feeling suddenly sorry for him, despite what had just happened. He murmured a thank-you, reaching up and drawing the garment around him. The two of them stood there in embarrassed silence, Fadawi staring down at the desk, Freya staring at Fadawi.

  ‘You must care for him very deeply,’ he said eventually. His voice was so quiet as to be barely audible. ‘Flinders. To be prepared to do something like that for him. He must mean a great deal to you.’

  ‘Like I said outside, this was nothing to do with Flin. It was for my sister. Her I did care for very deeply.’

  Fadawi glanced at her – a contrite, shamed look in his eyes – before shuffling round the desk to a bookcase behind it. Running a finger back and forth along one of the shelves, he found the volume he wanted, slipped it out and handed it over to her. Freya recognized the cover instantly: a figure swathed in blue robes walking along a dune top, a vast ruby-red sun seeming to balance directly on its head: Little Tin Hinan, her sister’s account of the year she had spent living with the Tuareg Berbers of northern Niger. She turned the book over and gazed at Alex’s picture on the back. She looked so young, so fresh-faced.

  ‘Flinders introduced us,’ explained Fadawi, sitting down in the chair behind the desk and pulling the cardigan even tighter around himself. ‘Five, six years ago now. We kept in touch. She sent me a copy of her book. Extraordinary woman, extraordinary. I really am so very sorry to hear about her death.’

  He looked up, then down again, opening a drawer and rummaging inside it. A pause, then:

  ‘I’m also sorry about, you know … Unforgivable of me to put you through that. Unforgivable.’

  Freya waved a hand, indicating that no harm was done and the apology unnecessary.

  ‘I knew it would upset Flinders, you see,’ he went on, still rummaging. ‘Provoke him. He’s a gentleman like that. I wanted to … after everything that happened, the trial, prison … get back at him in some way. But to use you …’