City of Jasmine (20 page)

I stood staring at her for a long moment before I remembered to close my mouth. “You speak English.”

Her smile was gentle. “I needed no English to understand tears,
sitt.
I think you are better now.”

“How do you come to know English out here of all places?”

She pointed in the direction of the men’s tent. “My husband is pleased to teach me the languages he knows.”

“Languages? Does he speak more than Arabic and English?”

She counted on her fingers. “And French, Persian and some Turkish, although this is not a language we like.” She tipped her head and peered at me closely. “There is a saying here,
sitt—
a woman without her husband is the bird without a wing.”

I covered her hand with my own. “This particular bird has her own wings. But thank you.”

“You are most welcome.”

She replaced her veil then and led me out of the tent and to another. This was the finest I had seen, clearly the domain of the sheikh. The ground had been spread with the most glorious Turkish carpets I had ever seen, light and silken underfoot, while the rough woolen walls of the tent were hung with the same. Pierced lamps hung from the tent poles, gently illuminating the dimness, and scattered about were dozens of cushions plump with feathers and dripping with fringe.

The tent was full of men, and I noticed Sheikha Aysha did not enter. She went as far as the flap and gestured for me to go inside. I recognised some of the men with Sheikh Hamid as those who had brought us to the village, but the others were strangers, watchful ones with the same bright eyes and assessing glances as their womenfolk. Another stranger sat next to the sheikh, his legs as carefully tucked as his sheikh’s, the skirts of his robes folded formally under him as his glossy dark head bent over a map stretched between them.

Sheikh Hamid looked up and nudged his friend, who looked up sharply.

“Gabriel?”

It seems astonishing, but for a moment, I did not know him. He looked a far sight better than when I had seen him last. He, too, had been scrubbed within an inch of his life, and I realised it was the first time in five years I’d seen him without either desert grime or his wretched disguise diminishing his features. The lines I’d noticed in the photograph were there, but the grey had been washed out of his hair, leaving it dark as a seal’s pelt, and his jaw had been shaved clean and smooth, revealing the cleft in his chin I had almost forgot. But the eyes were the same, as bright a blue as any forget-me-not in England, I thought numbly.

He gave me a warm smile for an instant, his dimples in evidence. Then, abruptly, his expression grew shuttered. He cleared his throat and rose casually.

“Evie. It’s not customary for Bedouin women to eat with European men, but they welcome you to eat with the gentlemen of their tribe. Sit between Hamid and me. It will make things less awkward for the others.”

I nodded to the
sheikh and scurried to take my place next to him, careful to keep my legs covered with my robe and my feet out of sight. “Any other tips?” I asked Gabriel, sotto voce.

“Yes, remember to eat with your right hand only and don’t talk.”

“Is that last bit also a Bedouin preference?”

“No, it’s a Starke preference,” he said with a glimmer of a smile.

“Have I missed anything important?”

“Only a ceremony of welcome. I was given coffee and there were certain exchanges of courtesies.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” I said ruefully.

“What have you been doing?” he asked, peering at my telltale pink nose.

“Nothing. Nothing
whatsoever.
”

As soon as we were seated, the sheikh gave a signal and food began to appear. The map was whisked away and in its place were set great platters of food similar to what we had eaten with Daoud but of much finer quality. The platters were passed in a strict anticlockwise pattern, beginning with the seats of honour. There were piles of couscous soaked with the juices of roasted meats, and the meat itself shredded over the top in delicious titbits. There were dried fruits plumped in honey, and even a dish of eggplant, sliced and fried crisply. A mellow goat’s cheese was offered, drizzled in more of the thyme-scented honey, and to follow, sweet pomegranate syrup in tiny glasses.

We ate until we could hold no more, and when the eating was finished and our hands were washed in rosewater, the men brought out their pipes and began to smoke and tell stories. I understood a little of what was said, but not enough to follow with any real interest although it was clear several of the men were born raconteurs. The salukis had slipped in with the food and arranged themselves between Sheikh Hamid and Gabriel, turning adoring heads from one to the other. Gabriel kept his hand resting absently on one shining head, and I noticed his signet ring, gleaming on his finger for the first time since I had seen him. He looked almost relaxed, and I realised he truly was among friends.

At one point, the sheikh looked at me and said a few words in solemn Arabic, then switched to English. “I have told them there is a great poem that carries the same name as the wife of Djibril.” He cleared his throat and struck a sort of pose. “‘This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean speaks.’”

I clapped in delight. “You know Longfellow!”

He shrugged. “It was on the syllabus at school.”

I turned to find Gabriel grinning. “Hamid and I nearly came to blows over Longfellow when we were at Eton together.”

The sheikh
puffed out his chest. “A gifted poet with a turn of phrase to rival any of the great Arab poets,” he maintained. “These American poets understand great spaces just as Arab poets do.”

Gabriel snorted. “Longfellow’s good for nothing but tawdry sentimentality. Now if you want to talk about real emotion, you need to get right back to the metaphysical poets—”

He went on to quote a few of his favourite passages, ending with a choice bit of Katherine Philips. “‘For thou art all that I can prize, my joy, my life, my rest.’ Now I think we can all agree that, as a description of the ideal of love, that is pretty damned comprehensive. In fact—”

Sheikh Hamid curled his lip. “In fact, she wrote that to a woman, so the argument that the metaphysicals were more equipped to describe romantic love is entirely moot unless you accept the notion that Katherine Philips practised romantic love with another woman. This was a poem written to a friend of the heart and it says nothing of the love a man bears his woman. No, for love between a man and a woman, you must turn instead to the Romantics. What could be more heartfelt than ‘The Bride of Abydos’? ‘Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.’”

Gabriel gave him a disgusted look. “Do you hear yourself? You’re quoting Byron, man. Is there anything so predictable as Byron? I suppose you’ll say next that Shelley was a paragon.”

Sheikh Hamid said stoutly that he would indeed say Shelley was a paragon and that led to an hour-long quarrel about the merits of the metaphysicals versus the Romantics. I half listened while the rest of the Bedouin sat, smoking politely while Hamid and Gabriel went at it hammer and tongs.

Just about the time Gabriel brought Suckling into it, I mimed a snore, and Hamid recalled himself. “Forgive us,” he said with a smile. “It is a long time since we have quarrelled so happily.”

He turned to one of his men and asked him for a tale, which sparked a sort of storytelling contest. Each of the men talked in turn, moving the group from laughter to tears. Gabriel translated quietly for me so I was able to follow most of what was said, and after the last man had told his story, they turned to me expectantly.

I blinked at Gabriel. “Why are they looking at me?”

“Because it is your turn,” he said, smiling through gritted teeth. “It is an honour that they wish a woman to speak. Do not insult them.”

I recognised the steel in his tone and I rose slowly to my feet. I looked to Hamid, and he nodded encouragingly.

“Speak,
sitt.
I will translate for you,” he encouraged.

I thought of the magical tales of
djinns
and beautiful princesses and desert raids they had shared, and I realised I had precious little of my own to offer. I flew an aeroplane, but without the
Jolly Roger
to back me up, I doubted they would believe it.

And then I had it. It was the thought of the
Jolly Roger
that did it, and I looked at Gabriel and grinned.

“‘All children, except one, grow up,’” I began. I couldn’t remember all of it word for word, but I remembered enough. I told them the entire story of Peter Pan, from his sly entry into the Darling household to having his shadow sewn back into place by Wendy. I told them about the flight to Neverland that was navigated by stars, and I told them about mermaids and Lost Boys and a pirate named Hook. I recounted the epic battle on the
Jolly Roger
and how Wendy, tired of it all, asked Peter to make the necessary arrangements.

And then, as soon as it had come, the story seemed to slip away. I could not remember Peter’s reply and I stood, silent before the expectant men.

“‘If you wish it,’ he replied as coolly as if she’d asked him to pass the nuts,’” Gabriel quoted softly. “‘For would keep no girl in the Neverland against her will.’”

He looked directly at me then, his eyes piercing in the soft lantern light of the tent.

I swallowed hard. “I don’t think I remember the rest.”

Gabriel’s eyes held mine. “Yes, you do. Peter takes Wendy home. And he tells her to leave a window open for him. Because he always comes back in the end.”

It was wrong, of course. Peter said nothing of the sort, at least I couldn’t remember it if he did. But it was a hell of a line, and I could not speak. I gave the
sheikh an apologetic little smile and he translated the last bits.

I sat, and the men murmured and nodded, some smiling at me, others looking frankly puzzled. Only Gabriel’s look was unequivocal. There was nothing but pain on his face, naked and raw, and I looked sharply away as the
sheikh rose.

It was his turn, and for my benefit, he translated into English as he spoke.

“This is the story of the great love of Antar and Abla,” he began. The story was long and beautifully detailed, chronicling the passionate affair between the warrior Antar and his beautiful Abla. It told of the challenges faced by the chivalrous fellow to woo his bride, and how patiently she waited for him to claim her. Hamid was a little too enthusiastic on the subject of armour—the details of that took far longer than any other part of the story—but by the time Antar was united with his beloved in marriage and then killed in battle, I was sniffling into my handkerchief.

When it was done, they took their leave with much bowing and kissing of cheeks although each of them was careful to give me a wide berth. The sun had long since set by the time they left the tent, and when Gabriel and I were alone with Hamid, the sheikh summoned one of his servants to bring coffee, thick black stuff with more cardamom. As we drank, Hamid lapsed into Arabic to speak with Gabriel and his expression grew grim.

“What is it?” I asked.

Gabriel put down his cup. “The Bedouin have had word from Damascus. While we’ve been out here running up and down the Badiyat ash-Sham, things have been happening.”

“What sort of things?”

“The country has declared itself an independent kingdom and Faisal is king. Furthermore, he has made it clear he will rule without European interference.”

I thought of the clever man with the long face and beautiful eyes who had featured so prominently in newsreels with Colonel Lawrence just after the war. Faisal had been reared in Constantinople but when war broke out, he had seized upon British promises of a pan-Arab state if Germany and its Turkish ally were defeated. With the help of Colonel Lawrence, his men had won substantial victories during the war, and he had depended upon the word of the English when it was time to deliver on their promises. He had been deeply humiliated when they had been broken as easily as they had been given, and Lawrence had been so aghast he had retired to England to lick his wounds in private. I was quite glad to see Faisal had not given up the fight so easily.

“It’s about bloody time,” I murmured.

Sheikh Hamid smiled. “You approve of an Arab leading his own country,
sitt?
”

“I think British promises ought to be honoured,” I returned firmly. “It’s an absolute disgrace that this wasn’t done as soon as the Arabs pushed the Turks out of Damascus.” It had been a point of great pride to them that they had liberated their ancient city from Turkish control, and the fact that they hadn’t been left to govern it was something of a black eye for the folks who had promised them autonomy.

“Have you any wish to take part in the government?” I asked.

He laughed. “No, dear
sitt.
The Bedouin has little use for government. What would we do with statesmen out here? We have tribal justice and it suits us well. Leave the cities to the men in suits and their books of rules.”

“How does it work exactly, this tribal justice?”

He considered his words. “It works in the way that a family works. A family does not rely upon the law to keep its members in order. It relies upon the honour of the family itself, the understanding that one is always part of something larger than oneself. A man does not survive alone in the desert for long. So it is with the Bedouin. A man survives only as part of a community. If he has troubles with his cousin, his brother will stand at his side and defend him. If he has troubles with his brother, his father will come to decide who is right and both sons will abide by his decision. The role of the father in a family is the same as that of a sheikh among his people. He is the father of them all.”