Liz Fielding: Her Desert Dream

‘Sitti!’ she declared. ‘I must do that for you.’ Then, ‘Bin Zaki says that you are going to the souk tomorrow. I will bring you an abbayah to keep the dust from your clothes,’ she said as she ladled something into the bath that foamed magically, filling the air with an exotic, spicy fragrance. ‘Would you like me to wash your hair?’

‘Not tonight. I’m really tired so I’ll just take a bath and then go to bed.’

She closed the bathroom door, locked it. Leaned back against it. Lifted her hand to her cheek.

Flash, bang, wallop…

Kal walked along the shore that she had walked, but went much further before sitting on a rock and calling his grandfather in London. He didn’t ask how he was feeling. He knew he would be in pain because he refused to slide into the morphine induced coma that would lead to death.

Instead, he described the scene before him. The lights along the far shore, the boats riding on the water, the moon rising, dripping, from the ocean so that he could, in his heart, be here with him.

He called his mother, who’d complained of a cold the last time they’d spoken, listened to her news, her happiness at becoming a grandmother again. She demanded to know when he was going to settle down and add to her joy.

Talked to a brother who was struggling at university. Made a promise to go and see him soon.

This was what Lydia called love, he thought. Joint memories that needed only a word to bubble to the surface. Shared connections, history. To know that you could reach out and there would be a hand waiting.

Without that, how would you ever know how to see beyond the fireworks and make a marriage?

How could you ever know for sure?

He was still holding the phone and he scrolled through his contact list until he found ‘Rose’.

‘Kal?’

Was that it? When just the sound of her voice made your heart sing?

‘Where are you, Kal?’

‘On the beach, watching the moon rise. I called my grandfather so that he could share it.’

‘And now you’re sharing it with me?’ she asked, still distant, still ‘Rose’.

‘I’m making a memory, Lydia.’ One that, for the rest of their lives, whenever either of them looked at the rising moon would bring back this moment. ‘Go onto your balcony and you will see it rise above the trees.’

He heard her move. A door opening. A tiny breath that was not quite a gasp, not quite a sigh. ‘It’s there,’ she said. ‘I can just see the top of it.’

‘Be patient…’

Was it when you could sit miles apart watching the same spectacle and words weren’t necessary?

‘Thank you, Kal,’ she said, minutes later when it was high enough to have cleared the trees around Bab el Sama. Her voice softer. Pure Lydia.

‘Afwan ya habibati, hada mussdur sa’adati,’ he replied. Then, when she’d broken the connection, ‘It is the source of my pleasure, beloved.’

Lydia stood on the terrace at dawn, sipping the orange juice that Dena had brought her, staying to watch Kal ride along the beach.

‘He is faster this morning,’ Dena said enigmatically. ‘The demons must be getting closer.’

‘Yes,’ she replied without thinking. ‘They are.’

She’d scarcely slept-at this rate she would soon look exactly like Rose-and had watched the sky grow light, barely able to stop herself from going to the stables, just to be near him.

‘Come, sitti , I will prepare you.’

Two hours later, resolved to keep her distance and wearing a feather-light black silk wrap, she and Kal crossed the creek to visit the souk.

It started well enough. They’d kept a clear foot between them and the conversation safely on topics such as the weather, Arabic vocabulary, followed by a whole lot of incoherent babbling as she’d seen the amazing array of colourful spices that came in dustbin-sized containers instead of tiny little glass jars.

Neither of them had mentioned the full moon they’d watched rising from the far ends of Bab el Sama. Apart and yet more intensely together than if they had been in each other’s arms.

‘Would you like the full tour?’ he asked, ‘or shall we go straight for the good stuff?’

She gave him a ‘Lady Rose’ look and said, ‘The full tour. I want to see everything.’

Maybe that was the wrong answer. The area where the blacksmiths worked was noisy, hot and sparks flew everywhere. There were tinsmiths hammering away too and carpenters repairing furniture.

Once they turned into an area where tailors were waiting to run her up a dress in an hour or two things improved. There were tiny shops containing all kinds of strange and wonderful foods that weren’t on the shelves of the supermarket that was her second home. She tasted Turkish delight flavoured with cardamom, a glass of tea from a man wandering about with an urn, little sticky cakes from a stall.

It was a different world and she sucked up every experience, her guard dropping long before they reached the stalls piled high with gorgeous silks.

Once there, she realised that she was not alone in wearing western clothes beneath the abbayyeh . There were plenty of woman who, when they leaned forward to look at the goods on display, revealed business suits, trousers, simple dresses beneath them. And although her pale hair and blue eyes made her an obvious foreigner, no one took much notice.

‘They’re used to Lucy and her friends,’ Kal said. ‘And another cousin, Zahir, is married to an English woman, too. A redhead in his case.’

‘I read about it,’ she said. ‘It caused quite a sensation but I had no idea he was your cousin. Do you know him?’

‘Our paths have crossed,’ he said. ‘We’re in the same business.’ He shrugged. ‘My planes carry freight. His carry passengers.’

‘Air freight? When you said you’d hadn’t quite broken the habit of acquiring planes, you weren’t joking, were you?’

‘I ran out of room, so I had to keep some of them in the air,’ he said. Joking, obviously. He had to be joking. ‘Have you decided what you want?’ he asked.

‘It’s impossible, but I’ve narrowed it down to three,’ she said.

‘I thought you were looking at this one?’ He lifted the edge of a rich, heavy cream silk that would be perfect for a wedding dress.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said, ‘but I have no use for it.’

‘Why do you have to have a use for something?’ With a gesture that took in all four fabrics, he spoke briefly to the stallholder. Moved on.

‘Kal,’ she protested. ‘I haven’t paid. I haven’t told him how much I want. And what about my parcels?’

‘He’ll deliver them. And Dena will settle with him. Unless you want to haggle?’

Giving it up as a lost cause, she said, ‘No, thanks. I’d rather hear more about this air freight business of yours. Does it have a name?’

‘Kalzak Air Services.’

‘Kalzak? That’s your company?’ Even she’d heard of them. Everybody had heard of them. ‘I…um…hadn’t made the connection. It’s not exactly a hobby, then?’

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘It’s not a hobby. But I wasn’t interested in the family business.’

She frowned. He hadn’t mentioned a family business but there must be one or how else had they supported all those wives, children?

‘Exiled playboy?’ he prompted.

‘I’m sorry-’

He stopped her fumbling apology with a touch to the elbow. ‘It’s okay. My grandfather lost his throne, but his father made a generous financial settlement-probably out of guilt.’

‘And his brother didn’t take that away?’

‘He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to, but I imagine he thought he was less dangerous playing with his racehorses and women than taking to the hills and fermenting more trouble.’