In the Kingdom of Men (27 page)

“That’s a bunch of bullshit, and you know it,” Ruthie said, and took the bottle. “When have these people ever been under control?”

“Listen,” Lucky said, “I’ve got my sidearm loaded and my machete nice and sharp. Arabs want to come over that fence, I say let them come.”

She rolled her eyes toward me, her skin pale in the harsh light of the kitchen. “I’m headed to the airport, Gin. They’re flying me out.” She lowered her face, her voice distant and strained. “They’re always shipping us out somewhere.” She handed me the bottle, lit a cigarette, and I saw that her hand was shaking as she rubbed her temple with one thumb. “I have such a headache,” she said. “It must be the rum.” She let out a breath. “I’ve got to use the bathroom before we go.”

Lucky waited until she was out of earshot before looking at me from beneath his brow. “She needs to get on out of here for a while,” he said. “I don’t want no one giving her a hard time.” I took another drink, then passed the bottle to him, looked down, and wiped my cheeks. He rested his hand on my shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. “That’s the girl,” he said, then straightened and looked at me with new seriousness. “Listen, sis, there wasn’t no
meeting this morning.” I brought up my eyes, and his face took on a pained expression. “That boy of yours is on some kind of crusade, and I’m worried he don’t know what he’s getting into. I told him he’d better leave it alone, but he won’t listen.”

“He won’t listen to anybody,” I said.

“Stubborn as a mule,” Lucky agreed. “Ruthie don’t like how tight a rein he keeps on you.” He took another drink of rum and passed the bottle to me, like we were toasting good times. “What’s he up to, anyway? I mean besides all this rabble-rousing about labor. He’s got some big bone he’s chewing on.”

I had forgotten how smooth real liquor could be, how it could wash down any misgivings I might have about breaking another of my promises to Mason. I took a big swallow, passed the bottle back, and lowered my voice so that Yash couldn’t hear.

“Mason thinks that Buck Bodeen was cooking the books, skimming money from Materials Supply,” I said. “That’s what caused the explosion at the plant.”

Lucky peered at me for a moment and then grimaced and wagged his head. “Bodeen,” he said. “Always trying to run the numbers.” He nodded once. “You tell Mason I’m behind him on this all the way. Anything I can do, he just says the word.” He straightened when we heard Ruthie come out of the bathroom. He considered the bottle, took a last drink, then handed it back to me. “Keep what’s left for when this mess is over,” he said. “We’ll have us a fine celebration.”

“We’re leaving the Volkswagen,” Ruthie said. “Lucky has his pickup, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t use the car while I’m gone.” She tugged at Lucky’s hand, and I moved with them to the door, where Ruthie hugged me hard. “If things get too bad,” she said, “you can always come to Rome. I’ll take you shopping. Via Condotti is the best.” She lifted her shoulders. “I just hope they’ll let me back in.” She looked out over the compound. “I don’t know what it is about this place,” she said. “At first you don’t want to come here, and then you never want to leave.”

Lucky pulled her close, and she leaned her head into his chest, wiped her eyes. “Let’s get this over with,” she said, and I watched them get in the pickup and drive off down the road, then took one last drink from the bottle before taking it to the kitchen. When Yash came in, he found me at the counter, eating almonds and staring drunkenly at the blinded window, wondering what it would be like to be with Ruthie in Rome.

“Ruthie is leaving,” I said as though to myself. “Flying to Rome until this is over.”

Yash considered my words, then tied on his apron. “It is a good day for
saag
and roti,” he said.

I sat at the counter, glum and silent, and watched him mix spinach with onion, garlic, ginger, and chickpeas. He fried several rounds of bread dough before moving them beneath the broiler to puff, then pulled them out with his tongs, spread one with ghee, and handed it to me.

“It is good to have comfort,” he said, “in times of tribulation.”

I breathed in the turmeric and coriander, then lifted the napkin to my face, but too late—Yash had already seen that I was crying.

He stood awkward in his apron, then squared his shoulders like a soldier bringing himself into formation. “Perhaps some more rum,” he said, “in your tea.”

I shook my head, blew my nose into the napkin, which brought up Yash’s eyebrows. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that everything feels so wrong.”

“Remember where we are,” Yash said.

“This isn’t funny,” I said.

He eased out a breath. “No,” he said, “it is not.” He tilted his head. “If not rum, perhaps rummy?”

I smiled a little and stood to get the deck of cards, but Yash held out his hand.

“First,” he said, “you will finish your lunch.”

“Who are you?” I asked. “My mother?” He didn’t answer but
simply went on about his chores, and I finished my lunch and felt better.

Except for Ruthie’s absence and my detention, that day and the next passed like so many others: I read, worked on crosswords for the paper, puttered in the garden, watched TV with my feet up while Yash vacuumed the carpets, and played more games of rummy than I had in the totality of my life. Not a single mention of Israel appeared in the
Sun and Flare
or any other paper we could read, but we listened to what news came over the radio, caught bits of President Nasser’s inflamed speeches accusing Israel of hostilities and then Moshe Dayan’s equally adamant rebuttals.

“Who is telling the truth?” I asked Yash one day over lunch, but he shrugged.

“The victor will write the history,” he said, rising to resume his dusting, “but the truth we may never know.”

“Maybe I’ll go for a swim,” I said. I had been watching the children at their lessons, and, when they were done, sliding into the shallow end to mimic their movements.

Yash nodded his approval. “An excellent decision,” he said. “The moist air is good for your lungs.”

“Do you know how?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “It was a part of my education. I excelled at water polo.” And then, as if reading my mind: “It is a game for boys, so it will do no good to ask me to teach you.”

“Abdullah’s sister is teaching me,” I said. “To swim, anyway. I met her when Lucky got us lost in the desert. We might still be there if Abdullah hadn’t found us.”

Yash straightened and looked at me. “Did his mother feed you her famous locusts?” he asked.

“Just dates,” I said, “and lots of tea. But I loved it, Yash. It felt so good to be out
there
instead of stuck in this house all day.”

“I’m sure that I wouldn’t know,” he said.

“But even if you can’t drive, you’re a man. You can go wherever you want,” I said. “And I bet you’ve ridden a horse before.”

“It will come as a shock,” he said, “but the Arabs did not bring forth the horse from their own spit and a handful of sand.” He rested his elbow at his waist. “I would wager that the Manipuri horses of India have carried soldiers into more wars and raced to more victories than any breed in history, including your Bedouin’s precious Arabian ponies.”

“He’s not my Bedouin,” I said, but I secretly liked the sound of it.

Yash sniffed and went on. “The Manipuri came with the Tartar invasion, as did the game of ground polo.” He looked at me. “Surely,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “I’ve seen it on TV. But I bet women can’t play that either.”

“Not so,” he said. “As far back as the fifth century, in Persia, in China, women and their horses have competed on the polo field.”

“Then I want to learn,” I said, and glanced at him before lifting my cup. “Maybe Abdullah will teach me.”

He saw that I was teasing him and tucked his mouth to the side before growing more pensive.

“In the military, I rode a fine horse.” He nodded, remembering. “But it is different here for me than it is for you. You think of me as a free man, but even if I had the means to buy or borrow a horse, I am not at liberty to come and go as I please.”

“You make it sound like you’re a slave or something,” I said.

Yash looked at me with a kind of fondness, as though he found my ignorance endearing. “Slavery was abolished in this country five years ago,” he said. “We are now called houseboys and maids.” I watched him push through the swinging doors into the kitchen, then turned back to my lunch.

“Yash?” I called.

He cracked one door. “More coffee?” he asked.

“I just wanted to say thanks,” I said. “Sometimes I forget.”

“A votre service,”
he said. He lifted his nose. “French, I can teach you.” And he let the door pip shut.

Instead of walking to the recreation center that afternoon, I drove the Volkswagen as though a few blocks might gain me some distance. Without Ruthie, the camp felt even smaller, as though it were closing in around me. The pool was empty, the Arab workers standing about with little to do but watch. Whenever my eyes met theirs, they looked away, and I felt an unease settle into the pit of my stomach. The Bedouin boys at the snack bar, the old Arab we called Tommy who ran the movie projector, Faris in my garden, Habib at the gate—they were part of my every minute, made my life in that place possible. I remembered Abdullah’s words:
We are everywhere, part of everything, beginning to end
.

I practiced swimming underwater, came up for a breath, and saw Candy Fullerton mincing toward me in a lemon-drop bandeau and matching mules, her blond hair pushed back by a polka-dot band. I groaned when she waved brightly and settled her beach bag on the lounger next to mine. I climbed the short ladder and wrapped the towel at my waist, wanting more than anything to make a quick exit, but I took a deep breath and settled in beside her, thinking that she, if anyone, would know what was happening outside the gates.

“What’s going on out there, anyway?” I asked.

She stopped applying Coppertone long enough to look at me blankly.

“Israel and Egypt?” I said.

“Oh, that.” She flapped her hand, then dug through her bag for her compact. “You live here long enough, you don’t pay attention to that stuff anymore. If it gets too bad, they’ll evacuate.”

“Ruthie already flew out,” I said.

“It’s just as well. She doesn’t really belong here, anyway.” When I stiffened, she brought up her mirror, applied a thick layer
of white cream to her nose. “Don’t get huffy. I’m just saying she doesn’t fit in, that’s all.” She rolled out her lipstick, bowed her mouth, and made three perfect swipes of pearly pink. “Maybe now you’ll have time for that golf lesson,” she said, and smoothed the pouch of her stomach. “I haven’t had a putting partner since Betsy flew the coop.”

I waited for a moment, thinking that I could ask her about Buck Bodeen, remembered what Mason had said about keeping quiet. I rolled my towel and pulled on my dress. “I really need to get home,” I said.

“Too bad,” she said. “Your tan is fading out.” She pushed up her breasts and dipped a finger into her cleavage as though she were checking its depth. “Carlo Leoni is retaking my portrait this afternoon. The first time, the light was all wrong.” She hardened her mouth. “Maddy told me you brought your houseboy on the bus.”

“I was sick,” I said.

“Next time, just stay home.” She pushed on her dark glasses, then lifted her chin. “Not that you care,” she said, “but I got a telegram from my mother. Pat’s boat got hit. They flew him out to Japan.” She jerked her head. “It wouldn’t have killed you to be nice, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, but she acted like she didn’t hear. I stood for a long moment before turning for the exit. As bad as I felt about Pat, I was glad to be back in the Volkswagen, glad to be leaving Candy behind. Back home, I found Yash in the kitchen, frowning down at a large manila envelope.

“What is it?” I asked.

He handed it to me. “I am not in the habit of opening your personal correspondence,” he said, his voice notched with irritation.

I tore the flap, pulled out the photo that Carlo Leoni had taken of me and Ruthie on the dhow, the Arab boy tucked at our knees, all of us smiling, close to laughter, and in the corner in flowing cursive:
Amo le mie due belle ragazze! Carlo
.

“Who delivered this?” I asked.

“The pirate,” Yash said.

“You know him?” I asked.

“I know of him.” He bent to check the drip of the still, adjusted the coil.

“He’s not a pirate,” I said, “not really.”

“If he is not a pirate”—Yash straightened and looked at me—“then what is he?”

“A great photographer.” I held out the print. “See?” But he waved it away.

“Virtue is in the subject, not in the man who captures it.” He pulled out a can opener and punctured a tin of tomatoes.

“Did he say where he was going?” I asked.

“Sometimes it is better not to know,” Yash said, then reluctantly cast his eyes to the back porch. “He has asked for coffee.”

I hesitated a moment before rising. When I swung open the door, I jumped back like I had stepped on a snake. Carlo sat on the step, placidly smoking. He flipped his cigarette to the grass and stood to face me, the brow of his green scarf stained with sweat, his shirt unbuttoned down his chest, his camera hanging heavy and loose.

“Bella,”
he said, “I knew you would come.”

I pressed my hand to my chest, tried to quiet the hammering. “I wanted to say thank-you for bringing the photo,” I said.

He reached for my fingers, held them at his lips, peered up at me. “You are like a madonna, you see. It is in the young boy’s eyes. I want it to be cherished.”

I felt a giggle coming on, heard Yash make a coughing noise behind me, and eased back my hand.

“I have an appointment,” Carlo said, looking around as though the yard stretched for miles. “I wonder if you might help me find my way.”

I remembered Candy and her portrait and then thought of the Volkswagen parked at the curb, the rare chance to talk with Carlo
about his photographs. I wouldn’t be going far, I told myself, only inside the compound.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, and went in and grabbed my camera, ignoring the look of disapproval on Yash’s face. Carlo followed me to the car and opened my door, watched me slide in before walking slowly around, a diminutive swagger, and settling into the passenger seat. When I glanced at the dagger that rode his hip, his eyebrows leaped and settled. “An unarmed man is like a castrated bull, good only for slaughter,” he said, then laughed when I popped the clutch, killed the engine, and started it again. “Ah,” he said. “You drive like an American.”