Zena is limping. The desert by the coast is rocky and in the darkness she tumbled. It has been several days and her ankle has not yet recovered though she has kept it bound. The injury aches with dull intensity and it slows her down. Given this, it takes her longer than she anticipated to reach the town of Al Qir, which it transpires is a busy port well supplied with willing and experienced fishermen – too many for an unknown, injured black boy to take his chance. Besides, when she walks she winces and it is obvious she cannot undertake even half the duties expected of a boy on board.
In the event, she sees no reason to wait until she gets taken onto one crew or another when there are coins languishing in her purse and (at last) a direct passage, by sea less than a week’s journey. She can tell a new story here. No one knows her. She nervously pulls herself up and decides she will simply offer to pay. This is tricky, of course. No one must know how much she has or where she keeps it. Still, there are no other options. Zena takes a deep breath and thinks that she is, at least, getting closer.
‘That ship there,’ she is told when she enquires which vessel is sailing to Muscat on the next tide.
It is large enough and the captain comes to the plank to see the dark slave boy who is offering coin. The man is surly. He regards her suspiciously and his manner of business is not like the stallholders who serve coffee and flatter, drawing their customers inexorably towards a purchase. He clearly finds Zena’s request strange and is standoffish. Still, she is offering him money.
‘You are injured,’ he points out.
She ignores this opening gambit. She might be injured but she can stand and fight.
‘I am on my master’s business,’ she says. ‘He has given me money for my passage to Muscat. How much is it?’
The captain considers a moment. He stares at the stalls nearby and does not meet her eye. ‘Five dollars,’ he says. ‘You will sleep on the deck and bring your own food.’
Zena is not so foolish as to accept anyone’s first offer, particularly one so inflated in price. She laughs as if he has made a joke. ‘That is worth only one dollar,’ she states baldly. ‘You will be transporting me like a goat.’
‘One dollar!’ the captain rebounds. He feigns shock as if she is crazy. ‘One dollar?’
In time, they settle on two dollars and then Zena suggests tentatively that if he includes food and lets her sleep in a cabin below the deck, away from the other men she will pay a total of three dollars. She considers the additional coin a good investment. She needs to sleep and wants to rest her ankle. It will not get better till she does.
The captain agrees with a curt nod, slightly surprised that such a ragged-looking creature can pay. The boy’s master must be wealthy to squander that kind of money on a slave.
‘You eat with the crew,’ he says. ‘Fish.’
Zena expected nothing more and limps aboard with as much grace as she can muster.
When they set off, the captain remains brusque. Zena is not paying for his company though and she keeps to herself. On deck he makes a little conversation, trying to place her.
‘Your master is in Muscat?’ the question comes in a low growl.
She nods. ‘I bring news for him.’
The captain eyes her dolefully. He does not believe a word of it. But he has his three dollars. Still, she feels uneasy.
‘You bring news? You can read?’
It is the only reason he can think of to value a slave enough to pay for this kind of journey.
Zena nods. ‘He is a powerful man,’ she explains.
The captain stops a moment and then beckons her to one side. Zena looks round nervously. The crew are about their business. No one is paying attention.
‘I will not go with you,’ she says.
He moves from foot to foot in uneasy embarrassment.
‘I am not going to hurt you, boy. I swear. By Allah. Please.’
She hesitates. After the reassuring tone of the man who tried to rape her, she sees no reason to trust anyone. The captain removes his knife. He places it on a bale that is piled on the deck.
‘See,’ he insists. ‘I am unarmed and you can keep your knife. Draw it if you want to.’
With caution, she follows him to the prow. The man seems furtive and she keeps her hand ready to unsheath her weapon. The captain, however, eagerly pulls a box from a small compartment and shows her a document that is folded carefully inside. ‘Can you read this?’ he asks.
Zena nods. ‘Slowly,’ she admits.
With difficulty, she sounds out the words. It is a contract with the owner of the vessel. The captain listens and rubs his chin. He has been wondering what it says. He takes notes of a point or two to take up when he returns to Al Qir. When Zena has finished he thanks her.
Shukran.
She bows reverently and senses a change in him. He has no reason now to doubt the purpose of her passage or the question why she is carrying a small purse of
talers.
It is strange, she thinks, how perceptions change – so much is predicated on a sham, a show. On deck the men, she notices, work round her, treating her with a respect to which she is not accustomed. If any of them knew, there would be an outcry.
At night, she blockades the door of the little cabin. Once she has done so she enjoys the best sleep since she left her master’s desert caravan and the security of Wellsted by her side. She hopes she will see him soon. The possibility makes her belly flutter and all the hardships seem worthwhile. As the boat heads south she thinks of her pale master all the time and she longs for him to touch her. It seems simultaneously as if it has been a year since he laid his hands on her skin and also as if what occurred on the rooftop in Riyadh was only last night. Zena has ceased to try to make sense of her feelings and instead stands on the prow and luxuriates in her excitement. Muscat is close. He might already be there. On the dockside. Waiting. His skin pale as a lily and his strong touch gentle as silk. She hopes his companions are not by his side and pushes all thought of Kasim and Ibn Mohammed to the back of her mind.
It is an odd sensation to have nothing to do on board, only to sit and wait, day on day, with an eye to the horizon. No one speaks to her except to offer food. Once the captain, still curious about her mission, asks what is in her bag, but she does not reply, only grasps her knife. Just in case. After that he leaves her alone completely.
On the fifth day, there is a shout on deck. One of the men has first sight of the city. The captain draws his eyeglass, confirms it and barks some orders. Zena feels her fingers tingle. She finds it impossible to take her eyes off the vista as, from a single shining speck in the distance, the dazzling white houses of Muscat glide into view. She has waited a long time for this. It has been over a thousand miles. Last time she arrived at this harbour she was filled with trepidation. Now she tries to hide the full extent of her excitement as she cranes to see and the boat moves across the last, short stretch of water between her and the Omani capital. It is as if her eyes are drinking in the sights of the city.
In twenty minutes she is close enough to make out the merchants brewing mint tea and shooing off the beggars – the same men she saw through the slats of the warehouse on her very first day. She strains to pick out Ibn Mohammed’s compound, but has no way to tell if either of her captors are in residence. Her fingers tremble at the thought. There are, she can make out easily now, no European ships at anchor. But that does not mean that her master is not there. In her excitement, having made it so far, she half expects to catch sight of him immediately. After all, he is what she has come to Muscat for.
As they slow and find a place to tie up, Zena can hardly wait for the men to see to the ropes before she shoulders her bag and disembarks instantly.
‘Malik,’ the captain shouts, as though they have been friends. ‘Goodbye.’
But Zena is gone. She comforts herself that in the big city it is easy to disappear. She notices immediately that there are other Abyssinians, in fact in some numbers so, for the first time since she left, her dark skin is not an immediate point of interest to those around her. To fit in like this once more is marvellous, and to be again at the hub of the Peninsula’s cultural and trading life is a pure joy. She never wants to have to talk to men like the captain again, grasping and suspicious men who might try to do her harm.
As soon as I can, I will change back into my burquah
, she decides. The strip she has taken from the veil will not stop it covering her face. Torn clothes might mark her out as a poor woman but not as a runaway slave. It is her best option. Muscat is not as harem-skarem as the hinterland and a lone woman in a
burquah
will excite little interest. It will be good to put the orange
hauza
and tatty
dishdash
behind her, for then she could be any woman.
Yes,
she thinks,
if I see him with the slavers, I will simply cover my face completely.
Not even the prospect of Ibn Mohammed and Kasim can take away the joy of seeing Muscat again and the prospect of a reunion with her master.
Zena disappears joyfully into the crowd. What she seeks is James Raymond Wellsted, but she suddenly realises, as she comes out of the dock into the bazaar, she is not sure exactly how to find him. The truth is she has not thought that far ahead.
Zena is not the only woman excited at the sight of the streets of Muscat on that sunny December day, or indeed, the only lady with an interest in the lieutenant. For it is the 12th of the month – St Ammonaria’s Day – and Farida is particularly fond of female saints. It is not that Mickey Ibn Mudar’s wife is devout in any way, but she does love a good story and the tale of the Catholic martyr Ammonaria refers not to one girl killed for her faith, but two. In addition, St Anthony had the devil of a time resisting his desire for a woman named Ammonaria – a friend of his sister with whom he was clearly if not in love, then very deeply in lust. Farida marks her time often with such stories – a day in remembrance of a saint or a mythological figure whose tale captures the spirit of a change in season or calls to mind a particular time of life. Farida does not know the date of her own birthday, for her family did not mark such fripperies, but, as a child, saints’ days were hallowed and the life of the whole estate was built around them. In celebration of Ammonaria’s martyrdom and, indeed, the love of St Anthony, Farida has donned her
burquah
, slipped down the back stairs and emerged furtively onto the dusty street. It is the first time she has been outside since the summer afternoon when she saw Wellsted sitting smoking a pipe with the rug merchant.
She heads with purpose, first of all towards the
souk
, slipping a pastry to the beggar on the corner as she passes. The weather is pleasant – sunny but not too hot – and Farida decides that once she has seen the horses she will stroll past Mickey’s office (for the sheer thrill of it) and then progress towards the dock. The idea of sending a letter home in the safekeeping of someone she feels she can trust has taken hold of Farida’s not inconsiderable imagination.
The news of Wellsted’s survival has not yet reached Muscat and Farida is hedging her bets. If he does not return she hopes she might find someone else with whom she can send such a missive. It has been too long, she keeps telling herself, and there is a tinge of guilt in that realisation for when Farida headed up the Dublin Road she rashly promised to write and tell them when she was settled. All these years later, she is not sure what message it would be best to send or whether to let Mickey in on the idea, but she is considering her options and hopes that Wellsted will return soon so she can decide on a plan. Still, she must be flexible and entertain the possibility of another officer. It is in this spirit that the city has called to her this afternoon.
Passing the bakers, the smell of fresh bread assails the warm air and Farida breathes in deeply and smiles. She has not had to cook for herself for years now, but making bread was the one piece of housework she did enjoy. Leaving the dough to rise. Waiting for it. Adding some rye flour occasionally or a spot of buckwheat for variety. Being, sometimes, able to afford to bake white, fluffy rolls that she’d eat from the oven with globs of melting, golden butter. If there is a food Farida misses it is good, Irish butter, patted into squares with a little salt. Arab butter tastes goaty, there is no getting away from it.
She proceeds past Mickey’s office and pauses in the street opposite the doorway. As always, she listens carefully, just in case his voice might carry down from the room upstairs. It would be an enormous thrill simply to hear her husband ordering silks or complaining of the range of available dyes or trimmings. It would feel, she is sure, as if she could possess a tiny piece of his day-to-day life – a chink through the slatted shutters of the
harim
. She wills the door to open and Rashid to pass her by on his way to carry out Mickey’s orders, but the house is impassive and shows no sign of the men within it. With a little shrug she abandons her eavesdropping, for today she has other fish to fry. Her
burquah
swishes at her ankles as she strides through Muttrah and its mass of overstocked market stalls and beggars, its livestock corrals (today there are goats, sheep and mules, but a marked paucity of beautiful horses) and finally makes her way to the waterside. She has picked out not one European in the crowd all this time. The boats at the dock are
dhows
in the main and a few, larger, Indian trading vessels. Nothing European. Farida sighs.
‘Ah well, Ammonaria, you haven’t been lucky for me, my girl,’ she whispers.
It is odd – her instincts are usually well honed and when she feels called out of her quarters she invariably finds there is some adventure waiting for her. On the dock today, however, there is only a rather large consignment of cloves being loaded, which, even tightly packed, scents the warm air with its spice and covers the stink of the harbour water. Farida gazes out over the strait, notes its prettiness, and thinks she ought to be getting back. She feels suddenly unaccountably hungry and decides to avail herself of the lush bowl of fruits supplied for her chamber and perhaps call for coffee to be served.
As she turns back up the hill, Farida hears a snatch of conversation, a tiny phrase, which stops her cold and makes sense suddenly of her desire to come into town. The voice emanates from behind her.
‘Have you seen a white man? His name is Wellsted, but he travels disguised as a Turk called Aga Khalil Effendi. Has this man come to Muscat? I have important business with him.’
Farida turns slowly and steps back into the shadow cast by the plain, whitewashed, two-storey customs building behind her. She peers at the boy making the enquiry. He is a poor soul, wearing a faded
dishdash
and a poorly tied turban. He is in his teens and his skin is the blackest Farida has ever seen. Over one shoulder he is carrying a goatskin bag and he has a slight limp as he moves, following the sailors who will not break their business to talk to him. They fob off his enquiry, motioning the child away, but he persists.
‘Please, brother, I must find this man. He is English. Have you heard his name?’
One Indian sailor almost spits at the kid. Still another says, ‘Go to Ibn Mudar. He sees to the white man’s business. Ibn Mudar will know.’
The boy hesitates. It is a tiny pause, but Farida sees through it. He cannot go to Ibn Mudar for some reason. He knows the name.
‘Where is this Ibn Mudar?’ he asks, but the tone is unconvincing.
If the sailors notice they do not show it. ‘Up the hill,’ one points. ‘Go to the stall of the scribe with the green turban. Ask there. At the street with the blind beggar. Off with you now!’
Imshi.
The boy bows very slightly and backs away. Farida follows a few paces behind. Further along the dock he asks the men on another ship if they have seen Wellsted, but none of them recognise the name and this time they send the child in the direction of the Greek brewer.
‘He knows every foreigner in Muscat,’ they swear.
It is probably true,
Farida thinks.
The boy does not follow the directions though. Instead, he dilly-dallies in the direction of Muttrah. Farida can see his eyes, sad and searching, trying to decide what to do. From his pouch he picks out a piece of bread and nibbles on it, to help with this rumination. Whatever business he has with Wellsted is well nigh fascinating but Farida can think of no way of extracting this information without speaking to the boy – something she has never attempted on her outings into the city.
He’s just a youngster,
she thinks, though her heart is pounding. She knows all too well how risky it is for a woman to show herself to be in any way available – asking for directions could be enough never mind enquiring about a mutual acquaintance. The boy is black, though, and most likely a slave. If there is anyone she could talk to it would be an indentured man, someone young over whom she could easily assert her authority – it should, she reasons, be all right. There is no other course of action that will get her what she wants. Farida takes a deep breath.
Feck it,
she says to herself and approaches.
‘Excuse me, you are looking for the white man, Lieutenant Wellsted. What is your business with him?’
The boy blinks. His lashes are long and the motion extraordinarily slow. It seems to take several seconds as if he is sizing the question up.
‘He is my master,’ he says carefully. ‘We were separated.’
Farida hesitates. According to Mickey’s account, Wellsted entered the desert with a black slave in tow, but of course that was a female. He was, if she remembers correctly, an abolitionist and opposed to owning even that single slave.
‘Where did your master buy you?’ she enquires.
A mere shimmer of uneasiness crosses the boy’s face. ‘Muscat,’ he says. ‘Here. That’s why I returned. To find him.’
‘And he took you with him to the desert?’
He nods.
‘And tell me, did your master find his friends?’
‘One of them.’
‘And they are returning?’
‘Yes.’
Farida laughs. Really, Wellsted is quite the fellow – a hero in fact. She claps her henna-stained hands in delight and as she does so a glimpse of her forearm is exposed, white as milk, before the material falls back into place.
Zena gapes. ‘Your skin,’ she says in shock, ‘it’s like his skin. Your skin is white.’
Farida draws herself up and stands square. ‘I could have you whipped for that,’ she spits.
She has to react strongly. Such a comment from a mere boy is sheer insolence. Men simply do not make mention of a woman’s appearance, never mind the colour of her skin. If Mickey were here (quite apart from being appalled at the discovery of his wife’s excursions) he’d chop off the blighter’s balls for his cheek. The boy realises his mistake. He backs off a little and mumbles an apology, hoisting his bag higher on his shoulder. He seems so vulnerable and, indeed, genuinely sorry, that Farida takes pity on him. He has not meant the offence, clearly. She will, she thinks, see him off in the right direction.
‘The men on the ship are correct,’ she tells the child, ‘you should go to Ibn Mudar. He will feed and house you until your master returns. He will be glad of your news.’
The boy nods once more, silently, but his eyes betray his discomfort at this idea. Zena feels she can trust nobody. And Ibn Mudar gave her to Wellsted in the first place. He was at Ibn Mohammed’s house, drinking coffee with the men. She cannot risk it. Farida is bemused. If he really wants to find Wellsted, then Mickey is the boy’s best port of call. ‘There is a reason you cannot go to Ibn Mudar?’ she enquires.
Intriguingly, the child does not reply, only stands stock-still, looking helpless. Farida stares as if hypnotised by the child’s eyelashes. There is something about this boy.
‘I can show you where Ibn Mudar is,’ she says.
The child twists awkwardly, and as he moves Farida catches a glimpse inside the goatskin bag. Folded on top there is a swathe of material. It is, if her eyes do not deceive her, a
burquah.
She looks once more at the delicate bone structure of the child’s face and the elegance of his wrists. She peers as if she is looking at some strange, new creature on display at the zoo. The line of hair beneath the orange
hauza.
The delicate physique – strong but still . . . There is, of course, no reason why a boy might not be carrying a
burquah
. Farida feels as if there is an abacus in her head and the beads are flying. The lieutenant took only one slave with him into the desert.
‘Are you his
habshi?’
she asks slowly. ‘Are you the girl who knows how to dance?’
The child looks as if he might bolt. A sigh emanates from the lips. Then she nods. ‘I have nowhere to go,’ she breathes.
Farida’s first reaction it is that is none of her business. Then she remembers how those women from the fancy crescents thought. The women who lived in Bath when she scammed there. Their worlds were small, to match their minds. The realisation knocks her silent for a moment. She always said she’d never act that way. Her conscience twists. Now, she thinks, is her chance to prove it.
‘What is your name?’ she asks gently.
‘I am Zena,’ the girl says. Then, seeing this woman is kind, she adds in a rush, ‘I am a runaway and only the
Nazarene
can forgive me
.
I thought he’d be here.’
Softly, the girl begins to cry. A perfectly formed tear slides down her cheekbone and falls to the ground.
Farida makes the decision in an instant. It is too intriguing. She wants to know everything – how can she leave the girl behind. Why, Mickey would never forgive her.
‘Now, now,’ she says. ‘Ibn Mudar is a soft-hearted old fool, really,’ she explains. ‘I’ve been married to him for twenty years and I should know. You must come with me, my dear. He will want to know of your journey and then, when Wellsted returns, we shall be the first to know.’
Zena sniffs. ‘Ibn Mudar is your husband?’
Farida looks round to see no one has heard. ‘Shhh,’ she hisses as she nods. She is not sure how she is going to explain this new acquisition in the
harim,
but she is sure it is right to bring the girl home. She lays a hand on the child’s shoulder for comfort. ‘And you went into the desert? You travelled with them and rescued the white men?’
Zena nods.
‘How many miles?’
Zena shrugs her shoulders. ‘I don’t know,’ she admits. ‘I sailed with the fishermen to come back. It has taken a long time. I had to return to him, though, and this is the only place I could think he’d be.’
Farida’s eyes sparkle. ‘That shows great loyalty,’ she pro cesses the information slowly. ‘What high adventure and I am a woman who likes a story or two, there is no denying it. The
harim,
my dear, well, shall we say it can be a trifle dull. Whatever are you still crying for? After all you must have faced! As a boy too. And you as black as a shadow and with news of our favourite lieutenant. You must change into your
burquah.
Come. You are very welcome. Come along.’
Farida motions the girl to fall into step and Zena hesitates only slightly. This could be an elaborate ruse, but it does not feel that way. Farida’s white ankle kicks out.
‘For now you will pretend to be my slave. It is for the best,’ she directs. ‘You can call me Farida.’