The Weeping Desert (6 page)

But the room was decorated and furnished with complete disregard for uniformity of period or taste. It was a mixture of Turkish, Persian and the worst and best of European styles. Valuable Louis XV furniture, gilded Italian pieces, heavily stuffed Edwardian sofas, brocaded divans of uncertain origin, silk and tasselled curtains, small fretwork tables, several television sets, and a water-cooler cabinet which no doubt dispensed Coca-Cola.

John recognised the elderly man who sat at the head of the reception room slowly smoking a Turkish cigarette in a long ebony holder. He had a dark, thin face, and the beaked nose of an Arab aristocrat. A silver fringe of beard softened the hard line of his jaw. His robes were of the finest cloth and a gold
agal
held his white lawn headcloth in place.

John had seen the ruler of Shuqrat once before, when the pumping station had been honoured by a royal visit. It had not been easy to catch a glimpse of the sheikh, for he had been surrounded by his entourage and bodyguards, but afterwards Brett Stevenson had said that the old man knew what he was talking about when it came to oil.

The sheikh glanced at John with a look of flickering distaste. The Arabs did not hold human life sacred and the sheikh’s expression said only too clearly that he would prefer to dispose of John at dawn in the normal way, rather than go through whatever farce was now about to take place.

John took a quick look round the room. There were about thirty men ranged along the walls on benches, awaiting either an audience, or members of the sheikh’s entourage. It must be some kind of court, for many were elders and men of some importance, as well as the usual excess of bodyguards. Silver censers of rose-water stood on a low table, and two women took these up and began flicking the perfume into the air.

John felt stifled by the heavy perfume and the incense pungently burning in silver jars. He sought Khadija’s eyes for some explanation, but she was standing apart from him, segregated by her women, lashes downcast, hands modestly folded together.

She did not like to see him thus, with armed guards on either side. But he looked more angry than scared, and that was in his favour. Her father would at least respect him for his defiance.

John was head and shoulders taller than the two Arabs who poked their rifle butts into his ribs. He noticed the weapons were British, fairly new and handled with complete disregard for the safety of anyone in the room.

A man with some high office began to chant from a book in high-pitched Arabic, which John had no hope of following at all. Then another took up the chanting, and the men in the room droned some sort of answer. All the while the women kept silent and apart.

The room was hazy with smoke from the burners, and above the smoke the bulbs in the magnificent chandeliers flickered; the air-conditioners whined on a disturbed note. John recognised all the signs of an electricity failure and steeled himself to make a run for it.

Two tough, swarthy guards closed in on him, so that the three stood shoulder to shoulder. John broke out in a sweat despite the chilliness of the room. The light grew dimmer.

The generator recovered abruptly and the lights blazed on again with renewed brilliance. The chanting faltered, but the sheikh flicked a long stem of ash onto the carpet and this movement seemed to be a sign for the men to link arms and begin a curious swaying dance, circling the room in a slow jig.

John found himself being pushed into a kind of ancient procession, and rose-water sprinkled on him. He began to protest, but a sharp rifle butt in his ribs choked his words, and he fancied he saw a gleam of satisfaction in the sheikh’s hooded eyes. He scowled at the old man, determined to be finished with this pantomime, whatever the consequences.

Then suddenly it was all over. The chanting ceased and the men began to shuffle into another room, led by Sheikh Abd-ul Hamid. John was escorted by the guards.

A magnificent feast lay on the floor, entirely covering the centre of the carpet—huge platters heaped with rice, some boiled, some fried, some saffron coloured; whole sheep roasted, chickens and curried meats; bowls of spicy tomatoes and a vegetable called ladies’ fingers fried in batter; flaps of Arab bread; and countless bowls of tinned peaches and cherries and Libby’s mixed fruit salad.

John felt a measure of relief. This looked like a fairly normal mutton-grab which only men attended, and was part of the pattern of Arab life. European officials were often invited to these feasts, and as long as they remembered to eat only with the right hand, they could not go wrong. He went, more willingly, to a place at the head of the table, beside the sheikh. They sat on a profusion of brocade cushions. There was no conversation, but all fell to the meal with enjoyment.

The sheikh pulled off a special piece of succulent mutton and handed it to John. It was the first time their eyes had met and held. But the sheikh was being no more than a polite host and his expression was still one of hostility.

“Thank you,” said John in Arabic, and took the steaming meat. This must mean he was the principal guest. First a prisoner and now the honoured guest. It was very confusing.

Glasses of iced fresh lime juice helped a little to clear John’s fuzzy head. It was beginning to ache from tension and the heavy atmosphere. He sat back at last, unable to swallow another mouthful. This seemed to be a sign for the others to stop eating, and they washed their fingers in bowls brought by servants, and began to compliment the sheikh on the excellence of the meal.

The sheikh rose and, turning to John, began to speak to him in Arabic. His voice was hoarse, as if the vocal chords were damaged by years of shouting into the empty spaces of the desert.

“Khadija is my favourite daughter,” John managed to translate, but he was not quite so sure of the next sentence. “You treat Khadija well. If you do not, I will send fifty men to cut you up into small pieces.”

“Inshallah,”
said John. “God willing.” He could think of no other reply.

The feast over, the men filed passed the sheikh to shake his hand, and then to shake hands with John. John murmured a polite greeting to each man, and wondered when it was all going to end. “
Salaam alaikum, salaam alaikum,”
he nodded.

Now it seemed as if they were in a hurry to be rid of him, as if he were suddenly an embarrassment. Two guards appeared at his side and escorted him rapidly out of the room, down the main flight of stairs and out into the courtyard at the entrance of the palace. There waiting, apparently for him, was a sleek, navy, air-conditioned Plymouth, glossily expensive, its engine purring, the driver immobile at the wheel.

From the dark shadows of the arches came a slim white figure, long sleeves fluttering, wafting the perfume of jasmine.

“Khadija?”

“You must go, my husband,” said Khadija in a low voice. “Go quickly, before my father has a change of heart.” The girl stood mutely at his side, waiting for any anger to explode. She was used, it seemed, to explosions from her menfolk.

“What are you talking about?” John demanded. “Your husband? You don’t mean all that…?” He waved his hand towards the suite of rooms they had just left. He was staggered, then appalled, his thoughts in wild confusion.

“It was the only way to save your life,” Khadija explained desperately. “We were betrayed by Is-if. When my father discovered that you had seen my face, that you had spoken with me, that you had spent some hours in my summer kiosk, he would have slain you without another thought. But I pleaded with him. I told him that your life was the most precious gift he could give to me; that I, Khadija, his favourite daughter, would ask no other favour but this one; that if he refused, he would never hear me sing again, or dance, or even speak, and the sun would go out of his life.”

Khadija’s voice trembled. “He did not wish to lose me but, you understand, he had to save face before his people. You had broken the law of the royal harem. They expect the old law to be kept. My father cannot show any weakness. There are many who would wish to rule in his place.”

John understood only too well. “So I had to be married to you, just because I had seen your face!”

“I am sorry if it is so distasteful,” she bowed her head.

He heard a small sob from the white figure beside him. Khadija caught his hand and pressed it briefly to her forehead.

“Farewell, my husband,” she whispered.

Then she had gone, slipping away like a ghost, back into the shadows, lost among all the other stirring shadows in the courtyard.

“Walhid el Said,” said a guard, opening the door of the Plymouth.

“Walhid el Said?” repeated John hopefully. “Are you sure?”

“Walhid el Said,” confirmed the guard, nodding, with the suspicion of a grin.

John got into the air-conditioned comfort of the big car, and checked that the door was not locked on the other side. He was going to throw himself out as soon as the car was clear of the palace; sooner, if there was the slightest indication he was being driven off into the desert and dumped.

The driver turned on the car radio, and pop music from Cairo blared into John’s ears. Then he lit a cigarette, one hand lightly on the wheel.

“Walhid el Said,” he said reassuringly to John. “OK?”

“OK,” said John wearily. He lay back, exhausted, and put his fate into the hands of Allah. Married. Well, perhaps in their eyes they might consider him married to Khadija, but in his eyes he was most definitely still single. And the sooner he got back to England and sanity, the better.

The streets of Oman Said were deserted. The tradesmen slept on the flat roofs of their shops on string beds or mattresses; the homeless huddled in an odd doorway or corner, or simply stretched out on the sidewalk. A few mangy dogs scavenged among the shanty-town hovels, sniffing at the kerosene tins and cardboard boxes that were stacked like a crazy pack of cards into pathetic homes.

At first John was not aware of the change in the sky. He lay back with his eyes closed in an attempt to still the throbbing on his temple and the stiff tension in the back of his neck.

A brief clatter of donkey hooves woke John. The car swiftly passed an old Arab, swathed from head to foot, urging his beast along the road, anxious to reach the oasis destination before the sun came up. The sky was getting lighter; it was nearly morning.

John looked at his watch. It was
5:30
a.m. He nearly leapt out of his seat. He had a plane to catch.

“Hurry, man! Can’t you go any faster?”

“OK,” said the driver laconically, and casually put his foot down on the accelerator so that the car shot up to seventy like a greyhound let out of its box. Dust rose from the track. A soft-plodding camel looked at the car with haughty disdain, curling its lip, its burden of fodder swaying perilously.

The Plymouth drew up outside the mess, with a shriek of brakes that would have woken anyone sleeping within a half-mile radius.

“Thanks,” said John, leaping out.

Brett Stevenson was waiting on the verandah. He hurried down the steps. He was unshaven and looked like a man who had not slept.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I’ve half the camp out looking for you.”

“It’s a long story,” said John, brushing passed him. “And I’ve got my packing to finish.”

John pulled a suitcase out of a cupboard and began throwing in clothes. He went into the bathroom to collect his shaving gear. The face in the mirror alarmed him. His skin looked grey under the tan, and there were unhealthy smudges under his eyes.

He heard Brett on the telephone in the other room. He was making several calls.

“I’ve called off the search,” said Brett heavily, from the doorway. “And I’ve called Sheila at the hospital. She was nearly out of her mind with worry.”

“I don’t see that there was any need,” said John stiffly.

“You’re an unfeeling ass,” said Brett. “Of course the girl was worried. You know how many kidnappings there have been reported in the papers lately. Then they bargain the life of the hostage against the return of a few political prisoners. They usually pick on a diplomat, but I guess out here, one European’s as good as another.”

“How did Sheila find out I wasn’t here?”

“She phoned up. She’d forgotten to ask you to get some shopping for her. We all thought it was a joke at first,” said Brett. “We reckoned you’d left the party to see Sheila back to the hospital and were making a kinda prolonged farewell of it.” He chuckled. “It could take me a couple of hours to say good-bye to a girl as pretty as Sheila.”

“Cut it out,” John snapped.

“Then Sheila phoned up wanting you to get this make-up for her in London. I know it’s none of my business if you’re up to something in your private life. There are quite a few bored wives out here only too keen to keep a lonely bachelor happy. But if this is your side-line, then you’re not being fair to Sheila.”

John threw in some shoes and his overcoat on the top. He would be needing them when he got to London.

“As you said, sir,” said John. “It’s none of your business.” Brett sucked a cigarette out of a squashed packet and lit it. The first lungful of smoke caught him and he started to cough.

“But you are still an employee of the oil company, and while you are here, I’m responsible for your actions,” Brett went on. “When I see one of my engineers coming home in the early hours of the morning in a car with a sheikh’s number plate, then I want to know where he’s been and why.”