In the Kingdom of Men (11 page)

We sauntered back, stopping along the way at a
suq
strung with Mexican peso pins and baby bangles, where a veiled woman, hands crippled with age, stood with her basket of fruit. When I reached to examine the bananas and dates, she touched her fingers to my face.

“Latifa,”
she said. I looked at Ruthie.

“She thinks you’re pretty,” Ruthie said. “She’ll want to give you something now.”

As if on cue, the woman lifted a persimmon from her basket. “She’s offering you a gift,” Ruthie said. “You have to take it.”

The persimmon nested in my hand, soft as an Easter chick. “Thank you,” I said. The old woman’s eyes wrinkled with pleasure, but then I saw them widen. She pulled up the hem of her scarf and hobbled away. I turned to see two Arab men approaching, their long beards untrimmed, their
thobes
cut short at the knees.

“What in the hell are they doing here?” Ruthie hooked her arm through mine. “Don’t look. Just start walking.”

I matched my quick steps to hers, and we headed back to where the bus would pick us up, weaving past crates, kicking up the sand that had drifted in and around the buildings. Maybe it was Ruthie’s bare shoulders that caught their attention, or maybe it was the way we brushed against the Arab men in our path, but when one of the
mutaween
let out a shout, I knew we were in trouble.

Ruthie pulled me into a jog, and then we were running, our bags belling our elbows, the quickening slap of the men’s sandals against the ancient stone street echoing behind us. We dodged between a donkey cart and an oncoming Mercedes, the young prince laying on the horn as he passed. Shopkeepers appeared at
their doors and windows, calling loudly, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I felt the strength in my legs come back to me, all those sprints across the open fields, running to beat my grandfather home, but Ruthie was lagging. I looked back and saw the two men barreling down upon us, skirts flapping, people and chickens and goats scattering from their path.

“I can’t,” Ruthie gasped. “I’m out of breath.”

I dragged her a little bit farther, wishing I could pick her up and carry her like a sack of potatoes, but when she staggered to a stop, I held on to her, turned, and stood as tall as I could.

A crowd of shopkeepers was joined by the curious men who had left their coffee and bargains on the tables and begun to gather as the
mutaween
slowed and approached, their canes held out like they were goading hogs. I could see now that one of our pursuers was a bit younger than the other, his voice shrill and excited. The elder, his face pitted with smallpox scars, stepped toward us, angrily gesturing to the group of men for support. I looked around, hoping for help, but the few women in their
abayas
had disappeared. I considered our bags and purses, some token we might offer—a Beatles LP, an emerald bikini—and then I remembered the persimmon.

I moved carefully, showing that I meant no harm, and extended my hand, the fruit balanced in my palm. “Peace be upon you,” I said, and offered a modest smile.

The elder looked at me with such disdain that I thought he might spit. Before I could move, he raised his staff and struck the fruit from my fingers. I pressed my throbbing hand to my chest and heard a murmur go up from the ring of men who surrounded us. Ruthie pinched my elbow.

“Don’t do it,” she whispered, but it was too late. The pain sparked a flash of anger that flared in me so fast, I didn’t even stop to think. I reached down, snatched up the persimmon, and threw it as hard as I could.

Mason had always said that I had a good arm for a girl, and maybe he was right because the persimmon smacked the
mutawa
right in the forehead. I pulled back, hardly believing what I had done, although if I had had a bag of persimmons, I would have pitched them every one.

The
mutawa
stumbled back. When he lifted his hand as though he might find blood and found instead a spatter of sweet fruit, the surprised look on his face turned murderous. He raised his cane to strike again, but I ducked away and pulled Ruthie behind me. I heard shouts and jeers, felt the crowd of men pressing in.

“Oh, shit,” Ruthie said. She huddled against me, and I draped my arms around her and tucked my shoulders, expecting a shower of stones. It took me a moment to realize that it wasn’t me and Ruthie who were being taunted but the robed police. The shopkeepers and other men crowded in, separating us from the
mutaween
, urging us away.

“Hurry,” Ruthie said, “the bus.” She took my hand, and we ran together, gasping our way past the fountain, banging up the bus’s stairs, startling the driver. We ignored the curious looks from the few other women and collapsed into seats near the front. I peered out my window and saw the angry eyes of the elder
mutawa
glaring back as he watched us pull onto the main road.

Ruthie let out a cackle of relief, reached into her purse, and tapped out two cigarettes, her hands trembling.

“See?” she said. “I told you we’d have fun.”

I dropped my head back, blew a stream of smoke. “Not the kind of fun I want to have every day,” I said, even though it wasn’t true.

She bumped against my shoulder. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re the best.” When I ducked my head, pleased and a little embarrassed, she laughed. “Listen, meet me and Linda at the pool tomorrow morning. We’ll work on our tans.”

By the time we arrived back in Abqaiq, the adrenaline had
drained away, leaving me with a pounding headache. Yash eyed me coolly when I dropped my bags to the floor, splayed on the couch, and kicked off my shoes.

“We went to al-Khobar,” I said, grinning. “The Virtue Police tried to catch us, but we got away.”

He lifted his chin, whether in disbelief or disapproval, I couldn’t tell. “You are welcome to freshen up a bit before dinner,” he said.

I watched him back into the kitchen, then gathered my shoes and bags and half swaggered to the bedroom. I laid out the swimsuit and spent an hour in the tub, shaving my legs, smoothing my heels. In the bottom vanity drawer, I had discovered an abandoned stash of Betsy’s makeup, and I lined my mouth with Strawberry Meringue, then opened a bottle of polish and painted my toenails Jungle Red. I couldn’t quit looking at them, pleased by the bright flash of color. I pulled on the bikini and appraised myself in the mirror, turning to see my naked shoulders, the bare expanse of each leg. “You’ve got gams like a filly,” Mason often cooed to me. “Want to take me for a ride?” I tucked my arms against my sides, hoping for more cleavage, stood on my tiptoes, sauntered back and forth, tipped my chin like Marilyn Monroe. I pulled up my hair, let it fall back around my face. “You’re such a tease,” I said aloud, and pretended a flirty laugh, leaned in until my breath fogged the mirror, and pressed my lips to the glass. The perfect bow, the ghosting condensation—I decided to leave it, just to see what Yash would do. Some part of me liked the idea of his finding it there as he cleaned, hesitating just a moment, maybe two, before wiping it away.

Abqaiq buzzed with electric heat as I walked to the pool the next morning, the coolest hours already boiled dry. Mynah birds panted in the deep forks of trees, whistling their distress, sometimes mimicking the beep of a car horn. The Bedouin boy at the snack bar nodded as I passed, shyly offering his greeting, his eyes never lifting from that place where my sundress dipped toward cleavage. I wondered at the stories he must tell his friends—whether he spoke of the Aramco wives with admiration or contempt—and thought of Abdullah. How did he move between one world and the other, compound to tent to compound? Did he tell his mother of all that he witnessed or keep it from her like a teenage boy who took his visions to bed?

“Gin, over here!” I saw Ruthie, laid out on her chaise longue, sleek as a seal, Linda Dalton beside her, all legs and décolletage, a cigarette in one hand, a Pepsi in the other, her beehive perfectly coiffed. They waved me past a passel of children gathered in the shallow end, splashing and screeching their delight. A few of the young mothers raised their faces to see who I was, then dropped
back to their magazines. I smiled down as I walked by, the knot in my stomach bunching. I counted the months, as I had done so many times before. Come June, my son would have been born.

Ruthie introduced me to Linda, who pointed at a bottle of coconut oil. “Help yourself,” she said.

“Thanks.” I sat on the longue and kicked loose my sandals, working up the courage to strip my dress. I looked at Ruthie and smiled when she handed me a soda.

“Just take it off,” she said.

I stood and turned in a half circle, trying to find the position that would afford me the greatest privacy before letting the dress fall. I folded it quickly and reclined on the longue, my arms crossed, the sexy confidence I had felt the night before gone.

Ruthie rubbed a bit more oil onto her already glistening thighs. “Linda was just telling me about this engineer from Morocco,” she said. “Sounds cute.”

“He’s rich,” Linda said. “Too bad he’s not white.”

“He’s whiter than some you’ve dated.” Ruthie pulled back her neck strap to check her tan line.

“Not close enough to take home to Daddy.”

“You don’t have to marry him, you know,” Ruthie said. “Why buy the pig when you can get the sausage for free?”

“Easy for you to say.” Linda rolled to her stomach and undid her top, let the straps fall to each side. “You don’t eat pork.”

“That puts me with the majority here,” Ruthie said. “You’re just a common infidel.”

“There’s nothing common about me, Miss Ruthie.”

I took a sip of Pepsi and listened to their banter, fascinated by the easy give and take I had never heard between women. I remembered Carlo Leoni and looked around the pool, wondering how many of the women he had bedded.

“Don’t forget to turn over, Gin,” Ruthie cautioned. “You’ll broil instead of bake.”

The thought of rolling to my stomach, exposing my backside,
filled me with misery, but I did it anyway, hooking my fingers in the elastic legs of my bottoms to gain an inch more coverage.

Ruthie snorted. “You’re funny.”

“Leave her alone.” Linda, her cheek against the chaise, sounded drowsy. “She’s shy.”

“Look at her,” Ruthie said. “How could you ever be ashamed of that body? I’d be showing it off every chance I got.”

“She’s not you,” Linda said.

“She’s repressed,” Ruthie said, “just like you.”

Linda raised her head. “You think I’m repressed?”

“Well, maybe not you.” Ruthie pulled a Thermos from her beach bag, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and filled her pop bottle. “Ginny Mae?”

I hesitated before handing her my soda. “Just a little, please.”

“That’s what we all say. Drink what you want, and I’ll finish the rest.” She tipped the Thermos, then tucked it back in her bag. “If no one sees it, it doesn’t exist, just like everything else in this place.”

“What’s the word on Katie Johnson?” Linda asked.

“Candy says nervous breakdown.” Ruthie sucked on her cigarette. “I say home abortion.”

“True?” Linda asked, although she didn’t seem surprised.

“What do you think?” Ruthie blew a stream of smoke from the side of her mouth. “She’s fifty if she’s a day, with six kids already. I’d just kill myself and get it over with.”

Linda clucked her tongue. “You have to admit that Clyde’s still got it.”

“Clyde needs to keep it in his pants.” Ruthie looked at me. “Linda decided it wasn’t worth having a husband just to have children. It’s very enlightened of her.”

“Shut up, Ruthie,” Linda said.

“That’s what you told me.”

Linda flipped to her back, her top falling away to reveal a full breast and pink nipple. I looked down until she got herself fastened.
“What are you and Lucky up to these days, anyway?” she asked.

Ruthie lifted her sunglasses. “Short leave in Bahrain, then Christmas break in Ceylon. Joey is going to meet us for Hanukkah.” She gestured to me with her lighter. “You and Mason need to start thinking about where you want to go. The company will fly you anywhere. Every two years, you get a full month’s home leave.” She smirked at Linda. “That’s when we’re supposed to reconnect with the mother country.”

“Right,” Linda said. “Why would you go back to the States when you can go to Morocco?” She rested her arm across her eyes. “How about your husband, Gin? He’s offshore, right?”

“Ten more days,” I said. The liquor made me feel light-headed, a little giddy. “Seems like forever.”

Linda peeked one eye my way. “You’ll get used to it. There’s more than enough to do around here. The problem is what not to do.”

“Boy, that’s the truth,” Ruthie said. “The wives who spend their hours making spaetzle are nuts. Lucky knows better than to expect me to meet him at the door, all cooey.” She snapped her eyes like a doll. “ ‘Here’s your martini, dear, and your slippers, and dinner is on the table.’ Blah. He’s lucky if he can find me at all.”

“He just follows the trail of booze bottles,” Linda said.

“Funny.” Ruthie waved her magazine. “All I know is that when he gets home, he wants food, sex, and sleep, not necessarily in that order, and if I don’t give it to him, someone else will.” She cocked her head my way. “You’ll want to keep your eye on Mason, especially around Candy.”

I felt my scalp tighten. “Mason would never …”

Ruthie sucked in her cheeks. “There are some things no man can resist.”

“Like what?” I asked.

She crooked a grin Linda’s way. “More wine, more time, we’ll talk.” She pushed on her sunglasses, brought up her magazine, and
I was left to the lull of the sun, the pleasant hum in my ears. I closed my eyes, drifted in and out with the rise and fall of the children’s laughter until Ruthie swung her feet to the ground. “You’re getting pink, Gin. You’ll have good color for the ball.”

Linda sat up. “Who’s going?”

“We are,” Ruthie said. “Come with us.”

“Maybe.” Linda swallowed the last of her Pepsi.

“I like your earrings,” I said. I’d been admiring the little coins that dangled at her jaw.