Son of Adam

by Margaret Rome

  ‘So you see, mademoiselle, you must put away for a year all your misconceptions about women being equal, for once you enter an Arab’s household you will become part of a lower creation, on the same plane as his wife, who very often may not even eat her meals with her lord who devours his food apart from her and allows her to eat only when he has finished—unless, of course, he desires her to administer to his amusement and pleasure.’

  It would have been very easy to scream at him to turn the plane around so that she might return home, but bravely she swallowed back panic that had risen in a lump to her throat and decided that he was trying to frighten her. He must not be allowed to guess that he had succeeded. There was cruelty in the cold grey eyes searching her face for signs of reaction. It was not difficult to image him exerting his authority over a squad of Legionnaires, marching them miles through the heat of the desert, supporting huge knapsacks, rifles, bayonets, shovels, ammunition and wood for fires—all this in full uniform, including an army greatcoat. Ordering his sergeants to chivvy along any stragglers and, when a man became too exhausted to obey, having him dragged behind the mule cart that brought up the rear of every column. No doubt he would try to justify such cruelty by quoting the Legion’s slogan: March or Die, and pointing out that a man could not hope to survive unless he kept his place in the column, but as she stared into the bleak eyes, the hawk-like features that were never softened by a smile, she knew that this desert Legionnaire was devoid of compassion and that far from regretting the need to impose discipline he would revel in the duty.

  The plane landed on a private airstrip stuck, or so it seemed to her, in the midst of desert wasteland, a mysterious primitive landscape composed of sand, gravel and an oppressively blank sky that stretched, miles and miles of it, from horizon to flat horizon. As Dove stepped from the air-conditioned plane she gasped. It was afternoon, the sun was at its hottest, so that when she met its fierce heat it was as if she had stepped out of a cool shower into the heat of a fire.

  Within the short time it took to walk across to a waiting Landrover her nylon blouse was attached to her body like a second skin and the medium-weight suit she had considered just right for the transition from cold climate to hot assumed the oppressive burden of a fur coat in a heat wave.

  Monsieur Blais had discarded the overcoat he had worn while boarding the plane and, looking coolly acclimatised in a light grey suit and pristine shirt dramatically offset by a flow of maroon tie, took the seat next to her in the Landrover, then crisply ordered the driver to move on.

  To where? So far as Dove could see there was absolutely no sign of habitation filtering through the heat haze. The car was travelling on a road of sorts, hard-packed sand imprinted with tyre marks from cars and lorries, but seemingly without end, just a wriggling snake dropping over the edge of the far horizon.

  ‘Why didn’t the Sheikh build his airstrip closer to the palace?’ she ventured.

  The forbidding profile did not turn. He seemed preoccupied, his eyes scanning the panorama of nothingness as if he could see many things that she could not. Yet he deigned, with a pained tolerance that made her feel about eight years old, to explain. ‘We thought it more convenient for everyone concerned to site it halfway between the palace and the community housing the men brought out here to develop and maintain the oil fields.’ He glanced sideways and the sight of her wilting figure seemed to exacerbate his notorious impatience. ‘Ciel! Don’t tell me you are preparing to complain already! You English are such moaners, always when you travel you expect the best of everything—the best accommodation, the best food, the best transport available! Do you consider your race has a divine right to the best and, if so, what, as a nation, have you ever done to merit such conceit?’

  The contempt in which he held the English was galling. At any other time she might have been tempted into argument, but discretion warned her to hold her tongue. There was no way a fierce desert hawk was going to be outwitted by a broiled chicken!

  The relief when the outline of a building hove into view was indescribable. At first it appeared so vague it might have been a mirage, but as they advanced towards it she made out the shapes of domes, towers, arches, and ornamented corbels supporting upper windows. A tall, solid wall surrounded the whole.

  They drove through wrought iron gates, opened in readiness by a sharp-eyed concierge, and proceeded along a drive bordered by a profusion of flowering shrubs, tamarisks, and palms. Neat paths branched off into gardens and as they neared the front of the house she caught a glimpse of lawns, fountains, and the deep blue depths of a mosaic-lined swimming pool. She resisted an impulse to rub her eyes. The sudden plunge from blasting heat into the cool green oasis was confusing. Obviously the Sheikh was a man who liked his comfort and possessed money enough to satisfy his every whim. It would not surprise her in the least to discover a miniature Everest somewhere within the domain, complete with snow slopes, ski-lift, the lot!

  When the car halted at the foot of a flight of stone steps Monsieur Blais ushered her indoors. Seeming to read her thoughts, he confirmed grimly, ‘The Sheikh is a prodigious spender. In all, he has seven palaces, but this one is his favourite. The entire place has been reconditioned regardless of expense and is now one of the most magnificent residences in the whole of Neffe. Reception and banqueting rooms can accommodate three hundred guests at one sitting; each of the many bedrooms is fitted out with ultra-modern conveniences and the whole place is equipped with close-circuit television. He has even had a golf course laid out—not for himself, because he does not play—simply for the benefit of any guests that might. ’

  A golf course in the flaming desert!

  The fairy-tale palace with hand-carved ceilings painted blue, crimson and gold had an entrance hall of pink marble, the fountain in its centre filled with flowers instead of water jets, and a pair of crimson-carpeted stairways ascending steeply into the upper quarters. Inlaid ivory and ebony tables were ranged against panelled walls, small arched niches housed a jumble of costly vases and ornaments. At the far end of the room was a raised dais covered with rugs and a low divan piled with cushions arranged along three sides. Set in the wall behind the divan was a large window composed of small pieces of coloured glass let into a framework of stucco, so as to form a floral pattern that admitted colourful half-light, a jewelled cascade spilling splashes of blue, green, mauve and gold upon the marbled floor.

  Hurrying in the wake of the stalking Frenchman, Dove tried to catch up and almost cannoned into him when he halted suddenly and spun on his heel. A shaft of coloured sunlight became trapped in her hair, its rosy glow

  bestowing upon her fair head the tint of pink champagne.

  At that moment, unnoticed by either of them, a heavy velvet door curtain was swished aside and a man stepped into the room. He halted, his eyes fixed upon Dove who, blithely unconscious of his hard scrutiny, was staring blissfully around wearing an expression of bemused delight.

  ‘Flower of the desert,’ he breathed his admiration. ‘Wine is thy body, music thy countenance, and untold joy is their offspring!’

  Dove heard nothing, but saw Monsieur Blais’s eyes narrow to slits and his scar standing out white against an outthrust jaw. Her eyes sought the object of his displeasure and recoiled from the intimacy of a hot, roving glance.

  ‘Greetings, Marc!’ Almost immediately the man’s expression changed to one of suave urbanity.

  ‘And to you, Zaid.’ Gravely Marc Blais inclined his head.

  The antagonism between the two men was almost tangible. Dove shivered, disliking on sight this new generation of Arab whose fleshy features spoke of overindulgence, whose hands looked plump and soft, whose eyes transmitted messages that filled her with revulsion.

  With his eyes fastened upon her face he waited for the introduction Marc Blais seemed reluctant to offer.

  ‘And you are ...?” He extended his hand in a show of Western manners and, inwardly cringing, Dove brushed her finger-tips against his.

  �
�Miss Grey, who has done us the honour of accepting the post of children’s nanny.’ Dove could hardly believe the evidence of her own ears.

  ‘Miss Grey,’ Monsieur Blais continued, ‘may I

  introduce Zaid, younger brother of Sheikh Rahma.’

  ‘An Englishwoman ...?’ When she nodded he smiled. ‘I admire your taste, Marc.’ Then addressing Dove, he pleaded, ‘Do not, Miss Grey, allow him to chase you away as he has chased away your predecessors whose unveiled beauty and tantalising petticoats enlivened our lives for far too short an interval.’

  Mercifully she was saved the effort of a reply when Marc Blais cut in sharply, ‘Where is Sheikh Rahma? We have a great deal of business to discuss; as he knew my time of arrival I half expected him to be waiting for me.’ Zaid shrugged. ‘You know as well as I do that my brother’s inclinations run closer to pleasure than to business. He is at present occupied with his latest play-thing—a highly bred stallion sent to him as a gift by the ruler of a neighbouring state but one, who will be expecting, and will no doubt receive, a brace of Cadillacs in return. But tell me,’ his tone quickened, ‘how did the armaments deal go? Have you managed to secure the promise of all we need?’

  ‘The results of my business transactions are no affair of yours. Later, if your brother sees fit, you may be taken into his confidence, but from me you will learn nothing.’

  Unadulterated fury blazed in Zaid’s eyes as he tried to weather the tersely worded insult. Dove stared, fascinated and a little afraid, at the man trying so hard to control his anger. If Monsieur Blais was a desert hawk then this man was a fox, cunning, treacherous, sly and with, she guessed, a passion for revenge that would outlast time itself.

  Instinctively she chose the protection of the hawk by moving closer to his side.

  In a voice shaking with feeling Zaid threatened, ‘At this moment, Frenchman, my brother is in control. But sheikhdoms have been known to topple, and if this one ever does then the debt my brother owes you could quite easily be overlooked by those who take over command.’ ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ the Frenchman assured him smoothly, ‘for if that day ever dawns I shall know I have failed in my duty to the man whose family I am pledged to protect. But believe me, Zaid, it is not your destiny to rule,’ his look of searing contempt traced the Arab from head to toe. ‘You are soft and flabby both in body and mind—no true Arab would pledge his allegiance to a man of straw!’

  When the enraged Zaid had swept speechless from the room Dove felt impelled to register a protest. ‘Did you have to show your antagonism quite so plainly? Weakling or not, I suspect that that man would make a dangerous enemy, so couldn’t you have at least pretended—’

  ‘No, mademoiselle, I could not! It is not in my nature to pretend. To me, friendship implies trust—I would never pitch my tent where I dared not rest my head.’

  The sound of clattering hooves outside the palace, of many voices loud with jest and pleasurable laughter, brought their conversation to an abrupt end.

  ‘There’s Rahma now!’ Marc Blais began striding towards the door. ‘Stay here while I greet him, I’ll return as soon as I can.’

  ‘Well!’ Feeling like a discarded mongrel, Dove slumped down on to a stool and prepared to wait. ‘Your wish is my command, oh, master!’ she snapped in the direction of his retreating back. ‘May Allah take pity on my parched tongue, for obviously you will not!’

  But less than ten minutes had elapsed when he returned accompanied by an Arab who she immediately guessed was the Sheikh. The two men strode the length of the room deep in conversation. Even from a distance a bond of friendship was evident, the Sheikh’s arm resting upon the Frenchman’s shoulders as they walked, his face, gravely intent, yet with eyes that rested upon his friend holding the affection of a brother. He was tall, standing eye to eye with the other man, and his body was equally slim. Piercing brown eyes, firm, sculptured lips, and thick, bushy eyebrows combined to produce a handsome if intimidating face. He was wearing a light cloak threaded with gold over a white tunic beaded around the edges, and a red chequered head-cloth kept in place with thick black double cord. Riding boots polished until the leather appeared blood red, and a necklace of jewelled charms, completed the picture. As he spoke he waved his hand so that sunlight glistened upon a gold ring, a long, brown, shapely hand typical of the Arab elite.

  When they strode past her without a glance indignation drove her to her feet.

  ‘Excuse me ...!’ she began, then faltered into silence when the Sheikh’s haughty stare swivelled in her direction. Too late, she remembered being told that in the Arab world one did not address high personages until invited to do so. She blushed, intimidated by beetling brows, and felt enormously grateful when Marc Blais came to her rescue.

  ‘ Mon dieu, I had forgotten about you!’ At any other time she would have felt furious. ‘Rahma, this young lady is Miss Grey, the children’s new nanny.’

  When the Sheikh acknowledged her presence with a

  courteous nod she was almost tempted to curtsey. Then he frowned, directing at Monsieur Blais a look of censure. ‘Miss Grey looks exhausted. When will you remember, my friend, that not every European adjusts as well as yourself to our climate?’ He laughed, turning back to Dove. ‘Though I must confess that he has been so long in our country we Arabs regard him as one of us. Would you believe, Miss Grey, that although every luxury is placed at his disposal, this desert nomad prefers to sleep on the floor of his room with a pillow of sand beneath his head?’

  She could quite easily believe it, but aware that criticism from her direction would not be tolerated by the man smiling fondly at his friend she merely smiled, pretending amusement The Sheikh clapped his hands and from out of nowhere appeared a servant. ‘Coffee and sweetmeats,’ he demanded. Then with a wave of his hand he directed Dove towards the divan. ‘Might I suggest, Miss Grey, that after you have taken refreshments you retire to the rooms that have been prepared for you? You must do nothing for the rest of today. Naturally, the children are eagerly awaiting your arrival, but they must contain their curiosity until morning.’

  As she was thanking him, the Sheikh’s personal coffee server stalked into the room, a dignified, impressive old man wearing a long black robe, carrying in one hand a large brass coffee pot with a curved spout and in the other a nest of tiny handleless cups. Slowly he poured a meagre amount of the fragrant liquid into each cup, then served first his master, then Marc Blais, and finally Dove herself.

  Sitting with her legs folded awkwardly beneath her on

  the low divan, she envied the effortless ease with which the men were able to relax.

  ‘There are rules to this coffee game.’ Marc Blais helped her to a paper-thin pastry layered with almonds and honey. ‘To take three cups of coffee is traditionally correct, but if you want more there is no need to hold out your cup. When you have had sufficient you simply hand back your cup with a small shake of dismissal— otherwise it will be refilled until eternity.’

  ‘Filled ...?’ Her look disparaged the small amount of coffee contained within her cup.

  ‘To an Arab a filled cup is an implied insult—Drink up and go as soon as you can!’

  ‘Which sentiment certainly does not apply to you, Miss Grey,’ the Sheikh assured her graciously. ‘Ahlan wa sahlan!—You are indeed welcome!’ As if recalling her many predecessors, he enquired testily, ‘I hope, Marc, that you have impressed upon Miss Grey how imperative it is that she does stay for at least a year? The children are becoming unsettled by constant change.’

  ‘She will stay.’ Laconically, Marc Blais eyed her. ‘Miss Grey owes it to me, and whatever their faults the English do not shirk from paying their debts.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Almost everything in the nursery was blue, including carpets, miniature items of furniture, and curtains that billowed in the breeze from an open window guarded by safety bars. A collection of costly presents, silver eggcups, spoons, rattles, ivory teething rings, were displayed on shelves ra
nged around the walls.

  As Dove stepped inside, looking crisply efficient in a uniform dress of pale grey, collared and cuffed in white organdie, the occupants looked up. The children, she noted with relief, were both dressed in Western clothes. The girl, Bibi, brown-eyed, dark-haired and with down-turned lips betraying a hint of petulance, wore a pink cotton sundress and Salim, a mere toddler, was in a trouser suit of the inevitable blue.

  A young nurserymaid scrambled to her feet when Dove approached, discarding the clockwork toy she had been winding for Salim. Indignantly, he emitted a wail of protest which, when it was ignored, escalated into a shriek of fury so penetrating it actually hurt the ears. This seemingly much-used ploy had the desired effect upon the nurserymaid, who immediately dropped to her knees to attend to his needs. Dove’s heart sank. The boy was obviously spoiled, demanding and receiving attention at his slightest murmur. Even his sister, for all her tender years, seemed resigned to existing in the shadow of the rampant young male.

  She steeled herself to be cruel. Salim was an engaging child, a merry-eyed, curly-haired individualist, but already, she guessed, an adept at probing the limits of adult tolerance. Unfortunately, such behaviour was not confined to the nurseries of the East; she had met it before. So, following guidelines laid down during her training, she decided upon tactics which hitherto had gained dramatic results.