He does not fully understand it himself. Prior to this incident he has never found communicating with Farida anything but easy. Her Arabic, after all, is excellent, but in this instance her extensive vocabulary appears to have failed her. He understands that somehow she came across Zena who, she says, was looking for him. What he does not understand, and he suspects that his life might be easier if he never understands it, is where the two women met, exactly, and how the subject of Lieutenant Wellsted came up. He remembers telling his wife the lieutenant’s story, but still, she appears to have rather more of a grasp of the ins and outs than he can with easy conscience, attribute to the tale he told her some months before.
‘She is here?’ Wellsted repeats.
Mickey’s shoulders drop as he realises that Wellsted has no interest in how all this came about. An Arab would smell a rat immediately and want to know the details, while the white man is simply delighted the girl is safe.
‘Yes. She is in my harim. She danced last night for my wife. The girl is an excellent dancer.’
‘Yes,’ Wellsted agrees, a smile creeping across his face. ‘That is wonderful,’ he says, incredulous as he clicks open the seal on Sir Charles’ orders and casts a vague glance over the scrawled letter.
He does not take in the details, but he needs something to do with his hands. She’s here! She’s safe. Really, the girl is quite extraordinary. Wellsted feels relief pervading his body and excitement too.
‘And she’s dancing, you say? Oh, she can dance all right. Mickey, will you take me to her? Can we go straight away?’
‘A moment.’ Mickey holds up his hand. ‘Gentlemen, you must lodge at my home. I insist upon it. You are quite the celebrities, you know. But first we must attend Ibn Mohammed’s funeral. We must prepare you. We will not have long. The obsequies must, you will agree, take precedence.’
‘Take precedence over what?’ the doctor asks, blearily, raising his eyes from the page before him.
‘We will go soon.’ Mickey meets Wellsted’s eyes in a promise.
He calls for assistance, for this is not the time for a leisurely stroll up the hill. Rashid will be back shortly with news from the mosque. Now he orders a palanquin. Mickey deems this the most appropriate mode of transport, for the white men should remain hidden from view. Funerals are events of high emotion and the agent, now he has the Indian Navy’s most celebrated officers in his grasp intends to keep them safe. Besides, he must have them washed and dressed – as it stands they smell like fishermen and are arrayed in jubbahs that are, if he is feeling charitable, best described as humble. It is no way for officers of the Indian Navy to present themselves.
‘Find what is taking Rashid so much time,’ he snaps at the boy. ‘And bring some water to wash with and British clothing from the store.’ It is late in the afternoon, there is little time and much to do. ‘Come along,’ he urges the boy, ‘you must send to the dockside. There are ships due any moment and we need to know their onward destinations. Quickly! Quickly!’
Chapter Fifty-One
Wellsted has never before attended a Muslim funeral. In Muscat’s hilltop graveyard, every important man in the community gathers as the corpse is laid to rest on his right side, facing eastwards like a good Muslim, towards Mecca. The news has travelled with lightning speed amongst the cognoscenti and there must be a hundred white jubbahed mourners, maybe more. The imam’s voice echoes the mournful salat and the soultan himself, when he hears what has happened, sends his condolences. Besides Wellsted and Jessop’s conveyance, several palanquins are pitched at the graveside.
From the shade, Wellsted thinks there is a beautiful simplicity about the ceremony. He knows that few of these men can possibly have known Ibn Mohammed well, but it is pleasant, he thinks, to see them pull together in a time of mourning.
‘I could not have wished for a better son,’ the old man repeats over and over.
Wellsted peers. The man is so elderly it is as if his skin is paper, though he can see a likeness across the years. Ibn Mohammed shares with his father a jawline and distinctive wide shoulders. The old man, though, has kinder eyes. How terrible, Wellsted thinks, to lose a child. He has never thought of Ibn Mohammed in the context of a family. In life, the slaver seemed hardly human, more as if he was made of rock. It is a shock that he went so quickly rather than weathering over time. Already, Asaf Ibn Mohammed’s story is becoming Muscat legend for he was a warrior, he was rich beyond Croesus and he died in the service of the soultan. The tale has all the elements of a nursery rhyme.
Jessop pays little attention. Shrouded from the proceedings by a thin curtain, he curls in the opposite corner, still taken up entirely by one letter after the other and occasionally sharing the contents with the lieutenant. It is as if, finally, he has his life back.
‘My cousin is delivered of a baby boy,’ he whispers. ‘Sarah swears that purple neckties are all the rage. Can you imagine?’
England is far more real to him than Muscat and he has already embarked on home leave in his mind. A mere peek through the curtain and the doctor has seen all he requires. Wellsted can hardly blame him, however, for he himself wishes he could join the men (for it is only men) as they gather to mourn around the grave. Mickey, however, has left strict instructions that the white men must stay hidden from view.
‘Tell Kasim I am here,’ Wellsted insists.
Mickey nods. In the event, although he does so, the navy agent is not sure if the slaver really takes in the information. He is so distant it is almost as if he is drugged. He hates society at the best of times and now on the worst of all possible occasions, he hovers like a thundercloud at the centre of the proceedings, brooding so resentfully that his appearance provokes as much concern as the corpse.
‘You have been ill?’ they greet him over and over. ‘Praise Allah you have recovered, brother.’
Kasim knows he will never recover. He cannot bear to look as they lower Ibn Mohammed’s corpse into the ground and the men pray together.
As they disperse, the gravediggers fill the hole and Wellsted from his hiding place says a silent prayer. He is glad Ibn Mohammed suffered only briefly. They were, after all, brothers on the sands. He decides he will return to the graveyard and visit when it is appropriate to do so. It is not the custom here to leave flowers but he thinks he will perhaps choose something of stone or metal as a remembrance on the grave. Kasim passes the palanquin so close that Wellsted could reach out and touch him. There is a blank expression on his face and his eyes are hard. Anyone who knows him would see that he is not a man to accept any comfort.
Ibn Mudar returns and the bearers move off. Wellsted, eager to see Zena, finds that he has butterflies in his stomach. As the sun sets, and the sound of songs of mourning float down the hillside on the air, he holds himself back from jumping out and proceeding at a run. All he cares about is that soon he will hold Zena in his arms.
Chapter Fifty-Two
As night falls, it is as if an additional layer of darkness draws in on Kasim and he sits with his fellows at the mosque and feels, despite their presence, entirely alone in his grief. The society of so many of his brothers is torturous. He can scarcely tell one face from another and all he can think over and over is that Ibn Mohammed shouldn’t have died. Why did he have to go, when Kasim himself survived the sickness? Around him the doyennes of Muscat society share their memories of his friend, but such were Ibn Mohammed’s protracted absences from the city that he was not widely known or at least, not known well. The old man sits in the corner and basks in remembrances of his favourite son – a slave stolen kindly to order, some money advanced to a brother in need or a gift for a valued client – while Kasim finds his voice all but useless and the witterings of those around him nothing short of inanity. He cannot say what he feels, for he has no words to describe it. He knows it is expected of him to sit here and take part. It is only one night. But the minutes are already stretching unbearably and emotions rip through him like a fury. He does not blame the doctor, who
he knows tried his best. Nor does he resort to the blasphemy of blaming Allah. He desperately wishes things were another way, but there is, of course, nothing he can do. For a man like Kasim that, of itself, is worst of all.
The slaver hears of it from one of the other mourners. The poor chap is only passing the time in mentioning the news and is not expecting such a violent reaction. Still, Kasim is in mourning and despite the Prophet’s admonishment of loud sobs and wails and the showy accoutrements surrounding the death of a friend, the slaver cannot help himself reacting as he does. The fellow kneeling next to him is plain enough – he is a cabinet-maker, if Kasim recalls correctly, and is known for his fine inlays of mother-of-pearl.
‘I see Ibn Mudar has gone home to his new woman,’ he smiles slyly. The man is only making conversation and trying, he supposes, to lift Kasim’s spirits. ‘One wife as white as milk and then this one. She is habshi. Absolutely black. Young too, I heard,’ he confides, ‘and only newly arrived. She is a dancer, or so one of his slaves told my man.’
Kasim feels as if his head might explode as this information sinks in and understanding dawns. ‘She is a black slave? A young habshi? Do you know her name?’ he pushes.
The cabinet-maker gives a laconic shrug. ‘They say she was smuggled into the harim by the Pearl. Though Aziz said that Ibn Mudar bought her as a gift. Rumours fly, you know. Who can tell? Though she arrived in Muscat two days ago. On that much we all agree. Ibn Mudar has a fine collection of women. I must seek your help, Kasim. My own harim could use a little livening up.’
Kasim feels fury ripping through him. He cannot even manage the pleasantries that the cabinet-maker is expecting of him – the ‘Of course, I will keep an eye out for a suitable prize, my friend’, the pat on the back, the jolly collusion. He roars like a man who has been physically wounded, his face darkens and he rises to his feet without taking any leave. All he can think of is that Ibn Mohammed would not have died if the girl had not skipped the emir’s camp. The circumstances would have been different. They might have avoided the plague, somehow. They might have taken another route or had news of it in advance. And now this girl, the very cause of all this misery, has the temerity to return to Muscat and take her place in the safety of a rich man’s harim as if nothing has happened. Ibn Mudar sent him condolences from the white men, he seems to recall vaguely, but did not mention this – the bastard. They all know and no one said anything! Wellsted and Jessop must be laughing as they plot to steal away the very person responsible for Ibn Mohammed’s death. He will not stand for something so shameful and unjust.
‘That girl is a runaway!’ Kasim spits. ‘I demand her execution.’
The mourners dodge the slaver who takes no account of the crowding in the room as he pushes his way to the door with the cabinet-maker in his wake. The poor man is utterly taken aback at the vehemence of Kasim’s outburst.
‘My friend,’ he tries to appease his brother, making apologies as he follows him through the room. ‘What have I said?’ he asks, reaching out to touch Kasim’s shoulder.
The slaver pushes the man’s hand away so violently that the cabinet-maker loses his balance and drops the cup of mint tea that he is holding. The shards shatter across the floor.
‘She should be beheaded!’ the slaver shrieks. ‘I will do it myself!’
Stopping only to bow quickly before Mohammed Ibn Mohammed, he takes his leave and sets out for the compound of Ali Ibn Mudar, decided upon his purpose. His khandjar is not the appropriate weapon to sever her head, he thinks. It is too small a blade. He will have to stop on the way and find a more efficacious instrument.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Straight from the funeral, Wellsted stands in the vaulted doorway of the main reception chamber of Ali Ibn Mudar’s grand home. The women have been summoned, or at least Zena has, and Farida has made it clear that she would not miss this for the world and will come down from the harim to welcome her husband’s guest. As soon as they arrive, Dr Jessop retires to his chamber. He will sleep, he swears, for three days at a stretch at least. Jessop’s good-natured, easygoing character is not, in this instance, sharp in terms of understanding and he does not see the importance of the girl with whom Wellsted is so keen to be reunited. She has, after all, not come up during the course of one single conversation over the last several weeks. All he cares about is reading his letters over and over and savouring the news from home.
‘I will sleep and sleep and only rise for pastries,’ the doctor forms the words with delight, the missives still bulging from his pockets. ‘Or perhaps to bathe again.’
‘You are welcome, my friend, and if you are in need of some entertainment . . .’ Mickey need say no more. There are plenty of girls in his household from which the doctor is welcome to take his pick.
‘Ah, thank you. I am not entirely recovered, however. I shall sleep first, I think, and then see how my appetite fares. And that is a doctor’s opinion,’ he says wryly as Aziz shows him to his room.
Wellsted waits downstairs with his host. The chamber is luxurious – the tiled floor is littered with piles of soft cushions and intricately woven carpets and the air is awash with aromatic scent. An array of fine brass lamps are lit and the coolness of the night air is refreshing. Still, the lieutenant cannot stay still – he is far too twitchy. Mickey regards his newly dapper guest with amusement. No Arab would expose his emotions over a mere woman so clearly. The boy is like a thoroughbred ready to race.
‘What do you think they are doing?’ he asks.
Mickey draws a small square of jellied rosewater to his lips. ‘Women,’ he says vaguely, though the truth is that, in general, most women be they slave girls or wives race when their husband or master calls them, and he knows he should more accurately say, ‘Farida . . .’ Mickey is contented though. He likes to wait. That way when he sees her, it is all the more satisfying. He is interested to see how things will transpire tonight. Farida swears the girl is mad for the white man’s love, and now, looking at the lieutenant, Mickey has no doubt those feelings are reciprocated.
Upstairs, Zena paces the floor, only a few yards over her master’s head. Mickey’s presumption is correct and it is Farida who is holding up proceedings. She is almost dressed now and will soon emerge from the flurry of slave girls that has assembled to assist her.
‘Sit down,’ she motions to the habshi. ‘Have a pastry.’
Zena waves off the notion. ‘He is here,’ she insists.
Farida laughs. ‘I pass by these walls and I kiss this wall and that wall. It’s not Love of the bricks and mortar that has taken my heart, But of the One who dwells within,’ she quotes from a poem they read together the afternoon before.
Zena shrugs. ‘Come on,’ she says.
They have been reading poetry since she arrived, or more accurately, a few hours thereafter, when Farida, having extracted a detailed account of the girl’s trip into the Empty Quarter, her escape from the emir’s encampment and her feelings for her master, realised that in addition to this rush of first-hand adventure, Zena was literate. The slave girl has enjoyed leafing through the books and quoting poetry aloud. Luxurious though it was in her grandmother’s house, there was nothing so grand as a library, but here Farida has a well-indexed, interesting collection including some books (with illustrations) dedicated to the arts of love. It is these in which she has taken a particular interest in the three days she has been waiting for news of her lieutenant.
‘Oh that,’ Farida winks, as Zena leafs through the pages, ‘there is always more to learn about that operation.’
Now, though, Zena would willingly torch the lot just to be in his arms.
Farida rises at last and flicks her hair over her shoulder. Agonisingly slowly, the maid places a sheer veil of the lush colour of grass over her head while another opens the door.
Zena tries to contain her excitement and not break into a run.
He first catches sight of her coming down the stairs. They both hesitate slightly, for the terms
of this meeting are unspoken. Then, when she approaches, Wellsted reaches out and gathers her close, not even noticing Farida sweep past and station herself on the cushions next to her husband. Such a public display of affection is unheard of, but Mickey and his wife simply sit side by side like proud parents and watch while Wellsted and Zena embrace.
Wellsted touches Zena’s lips with his own. Kissing her is like drinking salted water, he thinks. His thirst only increases. She pushes him away shyly and smiles.
‘How did you get here?’ he asks. He cannot take his eyes off her.
‘Boats.’
‘And you bypassed the plague towns?’
She nods.
‘You are lucky. Ibn Mohammed is dead of it.’
Zena feels relief at this news, but she is much more interested in how the master has fared. ‘And you?’ Wellsted cuts a dashing figure with his uniform reinstated but she wants to hear that is he is well.
‘As you see me,’ he confirms. ‘We bought a ship. A dhangi. Sailed it down the coast, though the sickness held us up a while. I’m so sorry that you had to leave alone . . .’ his voice trails. ‘It was so fast and you were forced to take action without any help. It weighs on my conscience but the doctor was so ill . . .’
Zena nudges him fondly. ‘You’re here,’ she says, ‘I’m here. And it is fine.’
Mickey claps for service. The spell breaks and the lovers are re-called into the room. Small goblets of blood-red pomegranate juice are passed on a tray. They stain the lips.
‘Quite the cocktail party, eh, Lieutenant?’ Farida smiles.
‘Madame,’ he pays his respects. ‘I am simply so very glad—’
‘She is some chicken, your lovely girl,’ Farida cuts him short. She cannot bear ceremony of any kind and prefers to be on a more informal footing. The Pearl continues, ‘I admit I am fond of Zena already. She is an intelligent and plucky young woman. I cannot be doing with these females who interminably scent themselves. I cannot be doing with it.’
Secret of the Sands Page 36
