Farida has never discussed with her husband the proprieties of a good Arabic wife, but then she is not Arabic and she knows that Mickey will forgive her anything. Some time ago, after three long, if largely enjoyable, years of marriage and at the grand old age of twenty-three, she finds that she does miss the world a little. The freedom of it. She has looked down on the street from a distance one time too many from her
bulchur-
scented chamber and now she thinks,
Feck it!
It does not occur to her that she might ask to go out. Even if she receives permission she will have to venture into the city in a covered litter and most likely will have to think of a damned purpose to setting foot (or gilded wooden frame) over the door. Farida likes her life in Muscat, but still, in County Cork, a young girl is accustomed to being able to walk into town and see what she can see. She rummages to find herself a black
burquah
that will hide everything – her status most of all. Plain black is for poor women or the very, very old and she wants to defy notice.
‘Like the bleeding dowager herself,’ she smiles as she disguises herself. She finds that her heart is pounding as she pulls the dark veil over her pale hair and stains her hands and her feet with a few drops of walnut oil. It is, she thinks, like obliterating herself. Wiping out her unique, white-skinned beauty and disappearing.
Knowing the rhythm of the household, it is easy to slip down the back stairs like a maid meeting her midnight lover or a woman who has been sequestered for three, long years stepping out into the light. It will be brief. She has perhaps an hour before anyone will come to tend her, to bring minted water or scented oil to the bedchamber where normally she reads for most of the day. And so, that first time, her heart racing like she is set to win the Derby and she only a slip of a girl with the frisson upon her, Farida sneaks into the
souk.
In life there are few things that remain thrilling and even the most profane pleasures pale with repetition, but Farida finds that her heart still thunders to this day when she leaves Mickey Al Mudar’s household on the sly. After seventeen years of careful espionage, no one suspects a thing. She is always restored and calm, as if nothing has happened, before anyone can wonder where the master’s favourite wife has gone. Farida indulges this guilty pleasure with circumspection, perhaps three or four times a year – but she relishes each outing, drinking in the street scenes like a woman driven mad with the thirst.
She wanders wherever her feet will take her, past a corral of donkeys dusty from their trip to market or two men haggling over the price of anything from a brace of fowl to an ornate, cedarwood screen with inlaid, brass edging. The stalls selling copper and diorite always have an exciting clamour. The sound of life outside the silent rooms of Mickey’s mansion is like babbling music to her and the smells fire her up so she feels like dancing, floating almost, a black spectre greedy for more. A woman in a
burquah
does not raise a glance on the city streets, and she finds that when no one can see your eyes, you are free to look where you please and in Muscat there is plenty to command Farida’s attention.
The market quarter is one of the biggest in the whole Peninsula, second only to Sur. The confines of Muttrah stretch for a good mile and what you can’t find in the maze of its streets and alleyways isn’t worth owning. A hub of trade from the east coast of Africa to the west coast of India and north as far as Turkey, you can buy anything from a Nubian slave to a pocketful of diamonds, a bolt of silk to a herd of white goats and the place teems with men of all creeds and colours.
Farida drinks it all in – the exotic dress and the barefoot children, grubby in their poverty, sometimes on their way to classes at the
mosque
, carrying the shoulder blade of a camel in their hand, for that is what they use in this strange place instead of a slate. She wonders at the outlandish reptiles in cages and the cinnamon scent of almost everything baked and drizzled in a gloss of honey. Over time she comes to recognise individual stalls and shops – the familiar scribe who sits, always still, his quill and ink shaded by a tatty, maroon canopy as he waits for his next commission to walk out of the throng – the important business of an amulet to be written to protect a much-loved son, perhaps. The stall that sells the ornate silver casings is a few steps up the street and the fellow does a brisk trade in portions of the
Quran
to fill them. Then there is the turbaned, Indian ancient with his stall of colourful cotton
jubbahs
and
dishdash
tunics, conducting what always looks like a most convivial tea party with an array of men haggling over the quality of the cloth and the cut of the sleeves as they sip their aromatic, mint tisane and try on
hauza
turbans. There are goats tethered in bells so they cannot escape without raising a clatter and then, oh, then there are the fine Arab horses. The first time Farida sees one she is overcome by a desire to touch it. A bay roan, it is a gorgeous buff pink and led by a
Bedu
who is taking his mount beyond Muttrah, away from the
souk.
For the girl from Rowgaranne it is a jaw-dropping sight. Farida knows her horses. Her father was stableman to a duke and he always swore that Arabs are the prettiest breed. Still, this desert steed makes His Lordship’s finest stallion, the pride of her father’s stable, look like a carthorse from Yorkshire. She puts out her hand to touch the animal’s hide.
‘Gorgeous,’ she murmurs and she wishes her father could see it.
Once, she follows Rashid when she catches sight of him buying almond fancies. She trails him to the small house that Mickey uses as an office.
Ah, so it’s here,
she thinks.
Once she has found it, Farida returns again and again. It feels good to walk by and think wickedly,
My Mickey is in there and I am here outside and off to see some fine horses that are for sale in the
souk
this afternoon.
Farida treasures these outings. She moves like a dark spirit along the thin streets, watching Muscat, raising her eyes to the windows of the upper floor of the houses where, shielded by cotton awnings or wooden shutters she sometimes catches a glimpse, the tantalising shimmer of a woman like herself. The wife of a wealthy man who, unlike Farida, is content to remain sequestered from the world, gilded in
taler
necklaces, pregnant half her life and tinkling wherever she goes.
Three or four times she’s seen British officers, their faces pink in Muscat’s unholy climate, sweating their way round the
souk
, looking for souvenirs, their shadows long on the sandy ground. This day, this very day, she sees one – the first in over a year. He is a tall man in an immaculate uniform with the braid and buttons of a lieutenant. The paleness of his skin is quite shocking.
From London and no toff,
she thinks, catching his accent as she passes him, sprawled leisurely on the cushions of a carpet stall. He has kind eyes though.
Blue like the sea and the sky,
she thinks.
And he is drinking it in.
What fool wouldn’t? Muscat is like a mind-altering drug. A stroll in its streets is like getting drunk for the first time. This fellow has an air of pleasing intelligence and looks as if he’s enjoying the to-and-fro nature of the merchant who is offering his goods. The white man has a quiet determin ation though he remains relaxed. He’s enjoying himself. You could trust him, yes, he is trustworthy. The Pearl considers a moment. She wonders what would happen if she leant over and simply said a few words. It wouldn’t take much.
‘My name is Fanny O’Donnell. I was shipwrecked, kidnapped and sold many years ago. Send word for me to my sisters and brothers. They’ll know them still on His Lordship’s estate. And here I am living like a princess, so don’t pity me for one second, Lieutenant.’
Surely he would say, ‘Madame, you must let me be of assistance.’ She sniggers; his voice is so
English.
Still, Farida keeps her silence, loitering by a stall selling tatty scraps of cloth, watching. He seems a strange creature to her now, even if he is one of her own, and of course, she knows full well she’ll say nothing, for it would certainly cause a scandal, if not (heaven forbid) a political incident. Dear God, she doesn’t want them to take her back. No, far better they all think she is dead, she muses sadly. It is only her sister she misses, in truth. The youngest one: Annmarie. Lord knows where she is now – the little dote.
Farida turns, pretending to examine some fabric on a stall as Wellsted stands to leave. The salesman lights a rock of frankincense and lets the officer perfume his clothes before he steps back into the sunshine. He does not take notice of the lady in her
burquah,
hovering in the shade watching him as he walks away.
Winding back towards the compound, sneaking carefully back to Mickey’s very fine, gilded cage, Farida breathes especially deeply. She luxuriates in the uneven paving stones and the dusty kerbside – the array of imperfections that make the world real and the kick of her ankle as she strides in whichever direction she wants. Last of all, she passes the old, blind man, half-naked from sheer need, who sits a few doors up from the
mosque
, begging the charity of his fellows. She always brings him something – a slice of cake, a tiny speck of frankincense or a silk scarf. Farida has no money, she has not had any money for years. Still, she presses the gift into his hands and he blesses her as she hurries on her way back to the shaded elegance of her chamber. It is only like this that she can guard against her life becoming too smooth, too easy. She’ll think about it this evening – all of it. She’ll think of it for days.
Muscat is the best city on earth,
she smiles to herself, the even slope of the steps rising beneath her signalling her homecoming.
I’ll never be cold or hungry again.
Zena stations herself by the window for most of the day while the slaves come and go. Outside, the same characters go about their business and she comes to pace herself by their familiar movements. She has never seen the master on the street but he most likely travels in a palanquin. Yes, she can see him in her mind’s eye, lying behind sheer curtains, being carried to his appointments and social engagements – the mysterious business of what a man does during the day.
She realises quickly that the house only a block along belongs to one of the slavers. It is odd to watch the men who stole her come and go from a distance. Even though she knows she is obscured by the carved shutter or the curtains, depending on which she chooses to employ, at first she feels that they can see her nonetheless. She endows Kasim and Ibn Mohammed with the all-seeing eyes of godlike beings, and her heart beats a little faster each time she catches a glimpse of them. Beyond the fear, she feels frustration. These are the men who killed her uncle in cold blood and they ride out in Muscat like any other, unpunished for their actions. Slavery is legal – but murder?
The unfairness rankles. Zena has begun to long for her freedom. Even being allowed to walk in the street seems an impossible liberty. It is for this reason that she takes particular interest in the women who pass by her window.
Generally they are wearing the
burquah
but each is still distinguishable if Zena looks closely. A flash of ankle or wrist can be most revealing. Deportment is also important – some walk tall while others, hidden from the world, slouch along. Most have shoes – sandals, in fact – and these are much more individual than the long, black robes that obscure most of the detail of their wearer’s appearance.
These women choose their own shoes,
Zena thinks.
She takes pleasure in noting that this one is barefoot and therefore very poor, and that another has finely plaited leather shoes with a small heel or wears an elegant silver ankle chain. Once she thinks she catches sight of a flash of milky skin as one lady swings past with a gait that can only be described as musical. It must, Zena considers, be a trick of the light, for the woman’s skin seemed almost to glow it was so pale.
One day she is attended by an old
sidi.
The slave has been sent to shape her nails. She crouches over Zena’s hands like a fortune-teller, smoothing the edges with a strip of pumice and painting on a dark, thick oil to make the cuticle malleable. They are alone in the room. Zena continues to watch the street over the old woman’s head. When the
sidi
speaks it is unexpected.
‘You want to go out, my lady?’ she rasps. The woman’s voice sounds as rough as the pumice, as if she has been sucked dry.
Zena laughs. The comment is an exciting diversion. ‘It would be nice to go out,’ she admits. ‘Do you ever leave the house?’
The woman lifts her head. Her eyes are the colour of butter, the irises like hazelnuts. ‘I have not been outside for forty years,’ she admits. ‘I was brought here when I was your age.’
Zena pauses, trying to form the question as diplomatically as possible. ‘You belong to your master, like I do?’
The old woman laughs. ‘No. No. I am a
sidi.
And the master here prefers his own women. Your master’s father, that is. I have always been a house slave. I think at first they were afraid I might run away, so I was not permitted to go to the market. And then, after a while, it simply became that I did not leave.’
Zena leans in and takes her eyes off the street. She’s glad that her position in the household is easily distinguishable from the old lady’s. She does not want to end her days bent over a young woman’s hand, making the fingers attractive enough for her master’s pleasure.
‘Forty years,’ Zena marvels, considering it. ‘Did you never want to run away?’
The woman shakes her head. ‘No. No. They behead you for running away and they are bound to catch you. Where is there to go? My brother ran.’ The woman’s voice falters. ‘We were taken together. They caught him. They chopped off his legs at the knee and left him to bleed to death in the marketplace. In front of everyone. They have no pity, the masters, if you disobey. They told me it took him a long time to die.’
Zena feels sick. She has been considering just this matter, though has come to the same conclusion. There is nowhere to run to and she looks so distinctive that she is bound to be caught and returned. It makes sense that the punishment for insubordination is heavy but she had not realised that it was death. She lays her hand on the woman’s shoulder in pity.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
The woman’s eyes betray her surprise that the pretty
habshi
has sympathy for what happened. No one has had sympathy in all the years she’s been here.
Later, Zena sits below the sill, her eyes peeking over the rim. The street is less crowded now for the sun is high. It seems unbelievable to her that she might never leave this house again – that this place with all its comfort will become the confines of her world. It does not feel it’s possible. She is daydreaming about what it would be like to leave, if only for a few minutes, when a hundred yards down the road a man rounds the corner. Zena sits up. He stands out immediately for he is the strangest creature the girl has ever seen. His skin is pure white, his eyes, she peers in wonder, are blue, and he wears a fitted jacket and trousers with golden buttons and braid embroidery. Unlike the
jubbah,
which mostly masks the shape of the body it clothes, this uniform shows the man’s strong limbs and thick torso. He walks with a purpose that is quite impressive, and then stops at the market stall on the corner and inspects the pastries that are on display. He is, Zena thinks, interested in food, for he makes his choices carefully and the stallholder packs up the pastries, bowing and smiling all the while.
Zena finds that her heart is beating fast. Without thinking, she grabs a small, brass-framed mirror from the side table and, like a schoolgirl, deflects a sunbeam across the street, aiming for the fellow’s face. At first, she misses but manages to make the buttons on his jacket gleam. Then, slowly, she diverts the beam upwards. As he turns into the light, she makes out the tone of his eyes – can they really be so blue? She has never seen such a thing. She squints to make out his face. He is laughing. She smiles; he knows it is a joke. His eyes are searching for the source of the light but he is not angry, only curious and amused. Zena takes this in before, in a panic, she dives under the ledge, giggling and hugging the mirror to her chest. She waits for a few seconds, counting to ten, and then carefully peers above the sill once more, hoping he will still be there.
The officer has turned and is haggling briefly with the stallholder. Then he pays. The baker bows, making his thanks, and Zena thinks that the white man has most likely paid too much for his pastries. She can tell by the smug expression on the stallholder’s face. Then, as the stranger turns in the direction of the dock, the sound of the call to prayer seeps across the city from one minaret to another. When he walks, he looks powerful, she thinks. That’s the word. Zena raises the mirror and follows his muscular figure down the hill with a trail of light on his heels. It’s the closest she will come to going out and for now it will do.
I mustn’t be childish and ungrateful,
she thinks. The master’s house, after all, is comfortable and she is well treated and safe. She shudders at the thought of the poor
sidi’s
brother. Things, she realises could be far, far worse.