Yousef Al-Mohaimeed - Where Pigeons Don't Fly

‘All this sky to ourselves and you’re looking for walls?’

The car crested a rise heading east and descended. To his right he saw a small tarmacked road into which he turned without noticing the barbed wire and open steel gate at its entrance.

‘I don’t know this place,’ she said, cheerful as ever, ‘so I’m not responsible for it!’

‘Should I go back?’ he asked her nervously.

She smiled. ‘No, keep going!’

It was a very narrow, tarmacked farm road, just wide enough for a single vehicle. On the left sat a small cabin, a yellow lamp suspended from a cable over its door, and next to it a white tent and concrete latrine. Beside them was parked an ancient and dilapidated Hilux pick-up that looked as if it hadn’t been driven in a long time.

A kilometre and a half further on, the road ran out at a barrier of packed soil. A right-hand fork led to a muddy open space. There was a large piece of agricultural machinery for extracting well water and what appeared to be towering walls of dried alfalfa bales. The tarmac curved to the left and he followed it round until he came to yet another left turn that looked as though it returned to the highway.

‘You’re going back to the main road!’ she said.

‘We’ll stop here.’

He found a track cutting across a field of alfalfa and drove in. He switched off the lights and the engine and an awful silence descended. He raised the armrest between them and pressed her to him, breathing in the perfume on her neck. Gasping, she pulled him towards the foot space beneath her. The smell of the fields came in through the windows, a sudden breeze pushing the scent of the purple alfalfa between them. The fragrance was strongest as they reached their peak.

He plucked out some tissues, handed her the box, opened the door and poured water from a small bottle.

He got to his feet and bared his chest to the mild breeze. Up on the highway the trucks’ headlights moved slowly and steadily.

‘You like the field!’ she teased. ‘You know, I don’t like fields.’

He laughed as he canted the last drop of water from the bottle. ‘What field? You mean your field?’

‘Idiot!’ she drawled, her voice languid and embarrassed.

He told her that the sky here had its own fragrance, that the crescent moon being wooed by a star above them was waiting for her to perch on one of its points like a child, her legs dangling down: an image inspired by some place or picture he had seen.

She laughed. ‘Seems the artist inside you has woken up!’ she said. ‘But there’s not much for you to work with: no morning, no light, no harvesting women with sickles in their hands.’

‘Tarfah!’ he cried suddenly. ‘I’ve just had the most wonderful idea for a picture: a couple making love in a field beneath a rustic straw awning. I’ll call it The Lovers . What do you think?’

Then he remembered Van Gogh’s painting of the peasants resting at noon in the shade of a haystack.

He got in.

‘Shall we go?’ he asked.

She was trying to wind her abaya about herself and muttering, ‘I seem to have put it on wrong.’

He turned away from the door. She was gazing intensely at him, gratitude in her extraordinary eyes, and a tentative smile forming on her face. He kissed her forehead and she pulled his face towards her and kissed him on the nose.

She urged him to get going so that she wouldn’t be late for her brother at the mall. He started the car and turned the wheel. Instead of taking the left that would lead them past the cabin with the lamp, through the gate and on to the highway, he went right, guessing that this road ran parallel to the one that brought them here. There was no need for them to go back the same way.

At first the road was good, then the smooth surface gave out abruptly on to a track through the fields, two straight lines, evidence of where cars had gone before. The crops were high but he decided to risk it and pressed on at a moderate pace so as not to get stuck and sink into the soil or sand. Suddenly the field ended and he emerged on to a bumpy track. Concerned that the car might stall he kept going. Then he realised they were on the wrong road. Tarfah, who had been enjoying his devil-may-care approach, began to show signs of anxiety.

‘Why don’t you go back to the other road?’

After a few minutes spent circling around, lost and panicking, he said, ‘I don’t think I can find it.’

He parked the car on a patch of firm and level ground and looked over at the nearby road and the barbed wire. His heart beat faster.

‘Take this road,’ she told him. ‘We came from here.’

And though he knew she was pointing in the wrong direction he did as she suggested, telling himself that her encyclopaedic knowledge of Riyadh’s roadmap must cover even this wilderness. All of sudden he found their way blocked by a vast expanse of ploughed earth and coming to a halt next to the huge furrows he slipped the car into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. The rear wheels spun but the car stayed where it was.

‘We’re stuck.’

He tried again, pressing harder on the accelerator and the car sank deeper. Getting out he bent over the rear tyre. When he touched the soil it was soft as paste. Damn . What was going on?

He glanced at her face. She seemed pensive. Was it fear that rendered her speechless or confidence that they would get free? Did she expect him to blame her for getting them into this situation? His first thought was how to get her out of here, how to return her to her brother now they were stuck in some remote agricultural area fenced in by barbed wire. Then again, how was he going to free his car from this trap?

Terrifying scenarios began wheeling through his head. What if he walked to the highway and flagged down a car?

The car stops; the driver is bearded. He’s suspicious — some guy hanging about in the middle of nowhere with a frightened girl — but he seems concerned and pulls over.

‘You go back to your sister and I’ll find a shovel so we can clear the earth around the car.’

He moves away and conducts a whispered conversation on his mobile. Is he calling the police? The men from the Committee? Either would cause a scandal beyond Fahd’s worst nightmares.

‘Let’s dig!’ declares the man, his eyes on the road. Damn him; he’s waiting for one of Committee’s SUVs.

He’ll see it signalling with its brights from a distance, then two men will approach and take Fahd to one side, calm and reassuring: ‘Who’s that with you? Don’t be scared: just tell us. If you’re honest with us we’ll make sure you’re OK.’

He admits that she’s his girlfriend. They question her and suddenly she bursts into tears.

Those wonderful eyes; how can they shed tears?

His feverish contemplation was interrupted by Tarfah.

‘Why don’t I call my friend Nada? Get her to send her driver?’

‘It’s an idea … At least I’d be able to concentrate on getting my car out without having you on my conscience.’

‘You mean you wouldn’t come with me?’ she said, her eyes welling. ‘I have to go with the driver on my own? Perhaps you could come with me to the mall,’ she added. ‘Find someone to tow your car.’

He cleared some of the soft earth from behind the rear wheels then returned to the driver’s seat. ‘Have you called her?’

‘She’s not answering!’ replied Tarfah dejectedly.

‘Her phone’s switched off?’

She gazed out at the furrowed horizon. ‘No, it’s on. She’s just not picking up. Perhaps she’s asleep.’

Leaving his door open he tried pressing gently on the accelerator and leant his head out to watch the wheels. The car moved a couple of metres backwards then the wheels spun in place, digging into the dusty ground.