The Weeping Desert (3 page)

He ran down the alley, panting hard. The way turned abruptly, and to his horror he ran full tilt against a heavy iron gate. He turned to retrace his steps, but already voices were closing in; the old beggar had obviously earned a few more coins without one thought for his previous benefactor.

John eyed the gate. There were a few footholds in the ironwork; the hinges were half an inch thick and a heavy iron ring was attached by a wrought-iron eagle’s head. With a last glance behind him, John scaled the iron gate and dropped noiselessly over the other side of the wall. Not a moment too soon, for the mob were now the other side of the wall, arguing in loud voices about where he could be.

John found himself in a strange narrow yard, beyond which was another inner wall built of slabs of rock crystal, and above the top of that wall he saw a plane tree, the leaves green and vivid. There was another gate in this inner wall, a double gate made of wood and studded with iron. John heard bolts being drawn from the other side and flattened himself against the wall, hoping he would not be squashed as the gate swung back.

A guard in white robes, rifle slung over his shoulder, went to investigate the noise from the mob outside the iron gate. The guard was shouting at them, ordering them to be quiet and make less noise. But it was impossible for him to make himself heard. In the confusion John edged out from behind the gate and slipped inside the inner wall.

Then he was in a cool and shady garden with trees and flowers and water trickling out of ornamental fountains. It was so unexpected and beautiful that for a moment he hesitated, forgetting the need for caution. He heard the twittering of birds in an elaborately constructed aviary and caught sight of a flash of brilliant wing. The lush growth of the creeper betrayed its regular watering. The air was full of perfume from the flowers, and the coolness and the gentle sound of the water and the birds made it a place where one wanted to linger.

John moistened his mouth and wished he could have a drink from the fountain, well water or not, but he did not dare to stop.

He came into a large courtyard flanked by an arcade of five arches supported by marble pillars, and he saw that through the arches were other, smaller courtyards with doors and archways leading off. Above him was the slender tower of a minaret, and inside its slatted onion-shaped dome shone a vivid blue and gold enamel.

The mob had somehow convinced the guard that there was an intruder in the gardens, for John heard the guard hurrying back for help. It would only be seconds before the gardens were being thoroughly searched.

John sought the long shadows and the slim cover of the marble pillars, then slid into the furthermost courtyard of the five. This small courtyard was even more beautiful than the first. In the centre was an ornamental fountain of polished green marble, the water sparkling like crystals as it dropped into the wide basin. There were small palms and climbing plants, jasmine and bougainvillea, urns spilling with flowers, and large exotic dragonflies darting among the blossom.

John could not pause a moment in this paradise. He opened a creaky, iron-studded door. The hallway was dark and cool, with narrow corridors branching from it in several directions. The size of the place was bewildering; the buildings and grounds must have covered several acres, and yet it was so carefully hidden within the
souk
that John had not even been aware of its existence before.

He knew he was in a most dangerous situation. He must hide until it was dark, and then hope he could climb out the way he had climbed in.

He passed a number of small, tawdry furnished rooms, each a jumble of living and sleeping suites, but which appeared to be in use.

The last room had an air of quietness and emptiness as he cautiously opened the door. It was larger than the others and the floor was paved in marble. The centre of the ceiling was domed with four carved marble pillars supporting the weight, and glass had been cut into the dome to let in the light. Under the dome was a large oval sunken bath in fine white marble, with a curved armrest and delicately panelled surround. Round the sides of the bath were small ornamental gold pipes which supplied water from all directions, and small steps led down to it.

John drew back his breath in amazement. It was quite the most beautiful bathroom he had ever seen. It seemed to be from another world, another century, for the walls were exquisitely tiled with ancient floral designs and in each corner of the room was a small fountain above a shell-shaped basin of the palest pink.

And yet there were some signs of modernity: several large cut-glass bottles of bath oil in garish colours, which he had seen on sale in the
souk
,
and hanging from some contemporary brass rings in the wall were a set of bath towels in pink, so thick that they could only have come from Harrods.

It was obviously a woman’s room. John wondered if this made it any safer for him to hide in. Would the guards be allowed to enter such a room, even to search it?

A door to the right led to a small dressing room in which John saw a tall, inlaid ivory screen. He was about to move it swiftly into the best angle for concealment, when he stopped aghast, hardly daring to breathe.

Asleep on a divan behind the screen, her head resting on silken cushions was a young girl. Her face was one of amazing beauty, for the flawless olive skin was glistening with oil, and the dark wings of her eyebrows were a perfect shape above the long lashes which fanned out on her faintly pink cheeks. She was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. Her nose was small and delicate and yet slightly arrogant, and her mouth was warmly red and wide and curved into a restful smile.

She was obviously sleeping off a bath in the Arabian custom, wrapped up to the armpits in a huge thick bath sheet, and her long dark hair twisted loosely on her head, the moisture still slowly dripping down her slender neck.

John began to step backwards, one foot at a time, in tense silence, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. In feeling for the doorway, he touched the door; only slightly, but the noise sounded like a crack of thunder, and the girl opened her eyes and shot up on the divan, terrified, clutching the sheet to her.

In a flash John was over to her side, his big hand firmly over her half-opened mouth. Her eyes looked up at him, and even the terror in them did not destroy their absolute beauty. They were a brown so dark and clear and large that John almost slackened his grip.

But the moment passed. The girl began to struggle, her eyes flashing with a fury now mixed with her fear.

“I won’t hurt you,” said John in a low voice. “Don’t struggle. I’m not going to harm you.”

His mind hunted for the right words in Arabic, and he began again, haltingly, “Don’t be afraid…”

Suddenly the girl sank her teeth into his hand, his burnt hand, and the pain was excruciating. She slipped from his grasp, but instead of screaming, she scrambled to the other end of the divan and sat with great dignity wrapping the sheet more closely round herself.

“If you had not clapped your big hand so clumsily over my mouth, I could have told you that I would not scream,” she said, surprisingly in English. She went on in her small, clear voice: “You are like a five-footed camel. No doubt the whole palace has heard you, and my servants will be here in a moment.”

“I can explain,” said John. “It’s all an accident, a mistake. Believe me, I just want to get out of here.”

From outside came the shrill voices of some women. The girl rose from the divan and stood in the doorway, listening. A woman had come into the marble bathroom and was talking at great length.

At last the girl said in Arabic: “Go away. You are disturbing my sleep. There is no one here. Begone, I tell you.”

John sank back on the divan, wiping his face and hands, breathing hard. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he began.

“Shsh,” she warned. “It is still not safe. I will hide you in my summer kiosk until it is dark. Then I will lead you out of the Gate of the Dead.”

John could not believe his ears. They were strange words for this century. Had one of those ruffians hit him on the head, and this was all some concussed fantasy?

“Where am I?” he asked. “Who are you?”

The girl stood in the doorway, dark and slender and with great dignity. She seemed to be looking closely at him, and what she saw in the tall, fair Englishman seemed to meet her approval. Suddenly she realised that her face was uncovered, and in some confusion she turned away and wound a muslin veil round her head, so that only her beautiful dark eyes were visible.

“Tell me who you are,” said John again.

The girl waved her free hand gracefully to encompass the buildings and the gardens, her henna’d palm uppermost.

“This is the old town palace of His Supreme Highness, Sheikh Abd-ul Hamid, the Ruler of Shuqrat, Land of the Five Deserts and Birthplace of the Eagle’s Tongue,” she said gravely.

Then she added, with simple pride: “I am his second daughter, Princess Khadija Safieh, Flower of His Eye and Daughter of all Wisdom. These are the women’s quarters. You are in the royal harem.”

Chapter Two

John’s first reaction was one of dismay. If he was caught in the royal harem, then it was the end of his career with the oil company for certain. Sheikh Abd-ul Hamid would demand his rapid removal from the country, followed by instant dismissal. His blood chilled as he recalled rumours of the crude and drastic Arab law—beatings, mutilations, dawn shootings—it would be a wonder if he even escaped with his life.

“I’ve got to get out,” he muttered, thoroughly alarmed.

“Do not despair, tall Englishman,” said Khadija. “I said I would hide you.”

“What will happen if I’m caught?”

“To glance upon the veiled face of one of the sheikh’s favourites is to have your eyes put out. To have seen such a flower without her veil is instant death,” she informed him coolly.

John dare not imagine the extent of his punishment, for this lovely Arab girl was not only a favourite, but a princess, and a princess still wet from her bath.

Khadija seemed to read his thoughts, for she slipped behind the ivory screen and reappeared a moment later covered from neck to foot in a long white robe with wide-hanging sleeves. From the inelegant bulkiness of the robe, it looked as if the princess had been too modest to shed the voluminous bath sheet.

“What is your name?”

“John Cameron.”

If it had not been for the real danger in the situation, John might have enjoyed the novelty of seeing inside the forbidden palace. The royal harem—it was such a strange mixture of the old and the new, the magnificent and the tawdry.

“Follow me, John Cameron,” she said.

Khadija led John out into the narrow corridor and, making sure that no one was about, she went swiftly down another passage in her sandalled feet and stopped at a small wooden door. She took a key from her sleeve and unlocked the door, then motioned John inside and locked the door behind them. They were in a small, dark hallway with a single, heavily barred window.

“No one is allowed here,” she said. “These stairs lead to my summer kiosk.”

He followed her up the rickety staircase, keeping his head down because of the low head-room. The narrow wooden treads were dusty and worn. Minutes later they arrived, a little breathless, at the top, and entered a hexagonal room with open alcoves on every side. It was simply furnished with a few Persian rugs, a sofa and some small tables piled high with glossy magazines.

“You like?” Khadija asked.

“Very much,” said John.

“This was my mother’s favourite room,” said Khadija. “Here she would catch the summer breezes, and dream of her own country so many miles away across the sea.”

Khadija stood by an open alcove. The view over the rooftops and harbour wall to the sparkling sea was magnificent, the water deepening now to a rich blue as the sun slid rosily away. Laden dhows plied their trade up and down the coast, gliding without effort on the smooth surface, their swooping sails billowed to the light evening breeze, their proud prows elaborately carved.

“My mother was French,” Khadija went on, talking hurriedly, as if she had not spoken to anyone for weeks and was afraid John might suddenly disappear. “My father met her while he was on a grand tour of Europe, and he dazzled her with stories of his palaces, and gave her jewels and called her a princess. Of course, there was no oil then. Oman Said was a simple fishing village and the only wealth was in the pearls from the sea, and piracy. My mother came to live here; and once here she could never get away.”

John imagined the lonely Frenchwoman sitting out the long gruelling hours of heat in this small, high room. “Did your mother teach you to speak such good English?” he asked.

“Yes. She also taught me to speak French and a little Italian,” said Khadija. “But then my mother died.”

“I’m sorry,” said John.

“It was four years ago. The oil was just being found. If only she had waited. Very swiftly there were aeroplanes here, but the spirit of my mother was frail and she could not wait to return to her beloved Paris. Perhaps one day I shall also see this Paris, and the boulevards and the shops,” said Khadija wistfully.

“But surely the sheikh, your father, has his own aeroplanes now? And there is the ruler’s yacht,” said John. “Your family are always making trips to London for shopping, to Switzerland for dental treatment; you have money enough to take you anywhere.”