In the Kingdom of Men (33 page)

Even before Mason and I had risen from our haphazard bed, Yash had the living room tidied, the lamp replaced with one from the spare room, our breakfast on the table. I ate with my eyes down, embarrassed to hear him snapping fresh sheets. When I went back to the bedroom, I found the drawers reorganized, every dress and shirt rehung as though the night before had never happened. The one small thing out of place was a ribboned package on my pillow. I opened the velvet box, lifted the diamond ring, and slid it on next to my wedding band. I lifted my hand like I had seen other girls do, flashing it in the light, but all I felt was a kind of numb appreciation, like I had earned the gift through some marginal favor.

I remember how those next two weeks were hot beyond words, steaming the breath from my lungs. I sat stagnant in the living room, watching TV, reading, unable to bear the torture
of stepping outside. I was glad when Linda Dalton stopped by, dressed in her nurse’s uniform and carrying my camera.

“I bought Carlo a new one,” she said, “extra lenses and everything.” She held out a packet—the photographs I had taken that day in the desert. “Carlo says you should hide them,” she said. “We don’t want you getting deported.” She shook her head when I asked her to stay for lunch. “X-rays to deliver,” she said. “They’ll melt in the heat.”

I saw her to the door, then sat at the table and opened the packet. The apricot desert, the three camels arranged like a pyramid, Carlo’s brooding profile, and then the shots of the riot, the cars overturned, the shattered windows. I remembered the charge of adrenaline, the background of smoke and glittering glass, the chief leaned lazily against the hood of his Jeep, the protestors with their fists full of rocks—for that moment, at least, I had been on the other side of something more than a simple fence, had crossed the divide into another kind of life.

I spent an hour in Mason’s study, poring over the framed map, tracing the few roads, measuring the two hundred miles of desert road from Abqaiq to Riyadh, imagining the photographs I would take whether Nestor wanted me to or not.

When Ruthie called from Rome that evening to say that she was catching the next available flight back home, I told her about the diamond ring, how strange it made me feel, and she laughed. “You’ve got it good,” she said. “Now all you have to do is learn to enjoy it.” And I realized that she was right. What did I want that I couldn’t have? It was beginning to dawn on me that if I played my cards right, Mason could be my advocate, my traveling companion, the one who could open the doors instead of closing them. All I had to do was learn the rules of the game.

The day before Mason was due back in camp, I drove the Volkswagen to the pool, enjoying one last turn behind the wheel before Ruthie returned home. Once in the water, I concentrated on letting
go of the panic that filled my chest whenever my feet couldn’t find bottom. I paddled my way from one side of the shallow end to the other, avoiding the small talk of the young women who chatted over the heads of their children, wondering if I should feel glad that I had so little to anchor me. When the wind picked up, the mothers gathered their towels and herded their broods out of the water, and I welcomed the chance to have the pool to myself, ducking under, holding my breath to escape the stinging sand. The Arab boy who manned the snack bar looked at me with sympathy when I gave up and made my way to the exit.

“Shamal,”
he said, and pointed to the sandstorm darkening the horizon.

I followed his direction, saw what could have been a tsunami of muddy water, or the choking smoke from a wildfire, a cyclone of sand boiling toward us. By the time I arrived back home, my eyes were burning, and I squinted through the grainy light, saw the Land Cruiser parked in front of the house, Abdullah at the wheel. I hesitated at the curb, wondering whether the storm had forced Mason home a day early, whether I should stop and say something to Abdullah, but the biting sand drove me inside. Yash met me at the door, ready with his broom.

“Where is Mason?” I asked, shaking the sand from my hair.

“Mr. Mason is on the platform,” Yash said. “He returns tomorrow.” I knew by the way he refused to meet my eyes that he was hiding something.

“Then why is Abdullah here?”

He sighed in resignation. “It would seem that you are being watched.”

I trailed him into the kitchen, rich with the steam of the stock he was reducing, my tea already steeping. “What do you mean, watched?”

“I didn’t want to say,” Yash said, “but I have seen the Bedouin most every day since Mr. Mason left, driving by, sometimes parking at the end of the block. I can only assume that
sahib
has
pressed the Bedouin into duty as”—he widened his eyes and lifted his shoulders—“a tracker, I suppose. I hear it is what they are good at.” He pinched a bit of salt.

I stared at him for a moment, then slid to the stool. I couldn’t believe that Mason had tricked me so easily. I looked down at the ring, folded my hands away.

“This is ridiculous,” I said.

Yash hummed and nodded, then stirred the pot and sniffed. “You see how we have this in common.”

“What?” I asked.

“You and I, Mrs. Gin, share a history of oppression, I at the hands of the British, and you at the hands of men.”

“I’m not oppressed,” I said.

Yash regarded me. “You cannot leave this compound or this country without the permission of your husband. You cannot drive yourself to the market or enjoy a cup of coffee at the public café. You are liberated then.” He snapped his fingers. “Very well.” He looked at me with an air of exasperation. “Don’t you see that we men are all the same? We wish to spread our seed on fertile soil, keep our plots free of weeds and our harvests pure, bring forth white man from white man, Sunni from Sunni, Brahmin from Brahmin. We protect you from the advances of other men, not in your interest but our own. We will readily kill you before we share you. It is the story of all mankind.”

“What?” I asked, and wrinkled my nose. “Why are you saying all this?”

Yash paused, let the sharpness of his shoulders ease. “You are right. It is not appropriate,” he said, and sank his hands into the dishwater. “What occurs between husband and wife is no one’s business but their own.”

And then I remembered the dresser drawers upended, the shattered lamp. I dropped my face into my hands and groaned.

“He can’t just sit out there all day,” I said. “He’ll roast.”

“He is a Bedouin,” Yash said. “They come fully cooked.”

“But I don’t want him watching my every move,” I said, my frustration turning to anger. I thought for a moment, then rose and pulled a Thermos from the cupboard, filled it with hot tea from the pot, and added sugar.

“Now where?” Yash asked.

“Not far.” I moved to the entryway and stepped out into the
shamal
, cracking my eyelids just enough to see my way to the Land Cruiser. The storm might have been a blizzard, the pelting sand stinging my face like ice, but I was determined to confront Abdullah, to let him know I knew what he and Mason were up to, that I didn’t like it one bit. I didn’t even think about taking my usual place in back, just rapped my knuckles on the passenger window and opened the door, which swung out hard, clipping my wrist. I pulled my way into the seat and used both hands and all my strength to wrestle the door closed. I wiped my face, tears streaming, and looked up to see Abdullah staring at me, eyes wide.

“It’s okay,” I said, “just sand.” I held out the Thermos. “I thought you might like some tea.”

He hesitated before taking it. “Thank you,” he said quietly. He pushed back the folds of his
ghutra
, and I saw that his hair had been cut to the collar. I felt a wash of anger and regret, as though something had been taken away from me. When he saw me looking, his eyelids fluttered as though he were ashamed.

“Why did you cut your hair?” I asked.

“Mr. Fullerton,” he said quietly.

“Do you always do what he tells you?”

Abdullah didn’t answer but poured a little tea into the top of the Thermos. In place of a
thobe
, he wore the khaki work pants and shirt prescribed by the company, and the outline of his body seemed different, thinner than I had expected.

“So is this what you’re going to do whenever Mason is gone?” I asked. “Sit here and watch my door all day?”

His eyes clicked up, then down. He licked his lips and blew across the cup’s edge but didn’t answer. The air inside the Land
Cruiser was close with the smells of diesel rags, the work sweat of men, and the woody scent of Abdullah’s cologne, or maybe it was only his skin. He seemed more shy than he had before, hesitant to look at me, and I wondered what Mason had told him. The thought that they had plotted this out, that Mason’s conciliatory words were a lie all along, made me sweaty with resentment. I looked out the window, the street and houses hidden by the brown skein of sand.

“I hate that fence,” I said, and pushed back against the seat, crossed my arms. “It’s supposed to keep us safe, isn’t it?”

“From what?” Abdullah asked.

“Hyenas,” I said, then turned to face him, “and Arabs throwing rocks.”

I could tell by the quick flick of his eyes that I had startled him. It dawned on me that he might have been part of the riot, his
ghutra
wrapping his face like the mask of an outlaw, and the idea pleased me, a secret we might share.

“In Texas, they probably thought you were an Indian or something,” I said. “You know, like an Apache.”

He rested his cup on the dashboard, where it fogged the windshield. “They thought I was a Mexican,” he said, “and treated me with contempt.”

“At least you got an education,” I said. “That’s more than I have.”

He looked at me fully for the first time. “And where has it gotten me?”

I pulled in my chin, cast my eyes around the cab, and lifted one hand. “Here,” I said.

He snorted, then drew back, as though he had shown some part of himself he hadn’t meant to reveal.

“What?” I lifted my hair, felt the moisture at the back of my neck. “Do you think that you’re the only one who has ever felt put upon? I bet you’ve never been switched for cutting the sleeves from your dress.”

Abdullah’s eyes took on new focus. “Have you been denied sweet water?”

I met his gaze. “Have you been told that you can’t leave the camp because you’re a woman?”

“I can’t live inside camp because I’m an Arab,” he said.

“I can’t drive to your tent because I’m a girl,” I said, “and you men won’t allow it.” I bunched my fists into my armpits. “I hate that word,
allow
.”

“I hate that they call me a coolie when they think I can’t hear.”

“You’re not a coolie,” I said. “You’re a petroleum engineer.”

“I was,” he said.

I pressed back against the seat. “We’re both just a couple of hicks from the sticks,” I said. “We should be grateful for what we’ve got.”

“Being a driver for the Americans isn’t the contribution I had expected to make,” he said.

I ticked my shoulder, drew my mouth to the side. “And neither is this,” I said, “is it?”

He looked at me quickly, something in his face I couldn’t quite read. We both fell silent, listening to the
shamal
keen around us, scouring the metal. The Land Cruiser bucked and shuddered, and I was glad for its anchoring weight, but Abdullah tightened his grip on the steering wheel like he was fighting to keep us on course.

“Alireza came to the tent,” he said, and the creases around his eyes deepened. “He has taken the child.”

I sat up and glared at Abdullah as though the fault were his. “Why would you even let Alireza near your tent?” I asked. “Why didn’t you take that rifle of yours and head him off at the pass?”

The line of Abdullah’s mouth flattened, and he spoke with such calm that it made me want to scream. “Above all else, Bedu value bravery, democracy, and hospitality. Anyone who approaches a Bedu tent requesting shelter is welcomed and given three days and
three nights of food and drink before being asked the reason for his visit.”

“That’s great,” I said. “You open your door and invite the robber in.”

A look of pained confusion came into Abdullah’s eyes. “We abide by the code of
dakheel
,” he said. “The harmony of the tent cannot be violated. If someone, friend, stranger, or even my worst enemy, comes to my door, I am honor-bound to take him in and defend him with my life for those three days, even above the lives of my own family.”

“So you would protect Alireza,” I said, “but let your mother and your sister die.”

“Or my son,” he said simply. “It is against our teachings that Alireza would take his daughter from the milk of her mother’s breast, but he is not an honorable man.”

“And what about you?” I asked. “What kind of man would let Alireza do such a thing?”

Abdullah looked up in a flash of anger. “What do you think would happen if I had denied Alireza his child? Do you think I would be seen as some kind of hero?” The muscles of his face tightened against the anger he didn’t want to show. “Alireza is a powerful man. If I tried to fight him, I would bring punishment down upon my head and upon the heads of my mother and sister.”

I leaned in as close as I dared. “Alireza would have had to shoot me dead before I’d have let him take that baby away.”

“And then you would be dead,” he said, “and he would still take the child. You could be proud of that.” He pulled back into himself. “Your husband is right when he says that we must resist revenge, aggression, and retaliation.”

“He’s always saying stuff like that,” I snorted.

“Martin Luther King said it first,” he said.

“You and Mason and your Martin Luther King,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me what the reverend has to say about the rights of
women?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, I snorted and pushed back against the seat, crossed my arms, and propped my knees against the dash as though I meant to stay awhile. I saw his eyes settle on my legs for a moment before cutting away, and felt a twinge of satisfaction until he reached for his tea, drank it in one swallow.

“Thank you,” he said, and handed the empty cup to me.