Bahaa Taher - Sunset Oasis

He wants me to feel ashamed of myself because I struck her and drove her away. I reminded him once more that it was he who made a spectacle of her and threw her out on to the public highway, so what fault was it of mine? He wasn't convinced. Even more, he wants me to recognize this sheikh as a saint and proclaim his virtue day and night because, despite what we did to his niece, he sends medicines and herbs to Fiona to help her.

What can I tell him? It's true that every now and then he sends herbs for Fiona to take, steeped in water or boiled in the morning or evening, and he sends oils of various colours for her to rub on her neck or chest, along with precise instructions. But what's the result of all that? Each time Fiona says that her health has improved thanks to the latest treatment she's tried, and that it needs time, that's all.

I, though, see no improvement from these primitive medicines. Her pallor and thinness increase day by day. The only thing that's changed is that the bouts of coughing come at less frequent intervals, though they are much more intense than before, as though all that these medicines do is to suppress the cough in the chest until the scattered crises are gathered into one violent crisis that makes her face turn blue and her eyes bulge, filling me with terror. She doesn't complain but I can see for myself. So what has this sheikh done that we have to thank him for?

At least he's trying, Catherine, as is this woman Zubeida. Their generosity does not, however, extend to me. The woman brought a present of dates and almonds for Fiona and I could, with difficulty, understand the few words of Arabic interspersed in her speech, but she had no difficulty communicating with my sister, who doesn't know Arabic, through signs and sounds. I was astonished to hear Fiona using, in her conversation with Zubeida, Siwan words and expressions that she'd learnt from her. I try to do as she does, for language is my field. I get close to them and listen to their conversation, but the crafty old woman rarely says anything to me directly. What hurts me more is that she avoids looking at me. Nevertheless, I have written down some of the words that I've been able to extract from their talk. I smiled when I thought of her first visit to us, when we looked at her in bewilderment as we tried to understand. She would cup her hands and move them as though using them to remove something while pointing to the ground and saying in Arabic, 'Go down! Go down!' It was only later, from Mahmoud, that we heard about the treatment by burial in hot sand. But still, the heat that killed us in the past few months now refuses to return.

Fiona greatly loves this brown old woman with her wrinkled face, who puts copious amounts of kohl around her narrow eyes. She seems happy to have her there whenever she talks to her. She astonished me when Zubeida first started coming to our house by taking hold of her hand and looking in wonder at the henna with which she stains her palms. Then she asked her in Siwan, neesh? ('and me?'). I was amazed that Fiona would be interested in such a thing in her deteriorating condition, but Zubeida understood and agreed immediately. The following day, it wasn't just Fiona's palms which were stained, she also tattooed with henna the back of her hands with spiral lines that looked like little branches with leaves and a small bird in the middle. Fiona was very proud as she spread out her hands with her broad smile to show the design to me and Mahmoud.

So long as it makes her happy!

So long as it makes them both happy for Zubeida to visit our house day after day! If one of her grandsons doesn't accompany her, she comes on her own, riding her donkey and always bringing gifts for Fiona. At the end of each visit, though, she points to the sky and the pallid sun and slaps palm against palm in a gesture of resignation. So we must wait for the heat, then.

Is Mahmoud up to the wait?

He too grows thinner by the day. He always used to have an appetite, he was virtually a glutton, but since Fiona's arrival he hasn't been able to finish his meals. I see him at table with his head bent so that he doesn't have to look at her face, but he swallows his food with difficulty, as though he has something in his throat. He has completely stopped drinking too — not even one glass in the evening as was his habit when things were going well for him. Is he seeking sainthood too? He has become calm and meek, which has relieved me of the madness of his changing moods. And in the last two days, I've noticed that his hand shakes. I understand and I wish I could

tell him that you cannot escape loving her by running away from her face.

I cannot forget the night he entered the house more miserable and downcast than I had ever seen him, and looking as though he were about to cry. He took me aside and asked me, swallowing, if it wouldn't be preferable for us to send Fiona back to Alexandria or Cairo to seek better treatment. I understood immediately that it was another attempt to flee, by sending her far from his gaze. I said quietly that I agreed totally, but did he think that Fiona's condition permitted travel in a caravan and having to withstand the cold nights of the desert? It would be a death sentence. The question 'For whom?' escaped from him in a tremulous voice. I ignored the slip of the tongue and said, 'Let's wait till the weather improves.' I watched joy struggling with despair in his face as he said, with resignation, 'Let's wait.' At that moment I almost felt pity for him, as I do when he tosses and turns in bed, sleepless for most of the night and then pursued by nightmares from which he wakes in terror. Despite this, he's a complete stranger to me now, as though we had never been man and wife.

Fortunately, Fiona is not aware of any of this. In her innocence, she cannot imagine that her sister's husband could fall in love with her. Her imagination would be incapable of grasping the idea even if I were to tell her that what had been between Mahmoud and me was over. I'm just waiting for her to be cured, or for her condition to improve, and hoping that during this period I can get somewhere in my search. In any case, I shall leave with her. That is a final decision. I shall have done with everything concerning Mahmoud, Maleeka, this oasis, Egypt and its people. All that will be behind me soon.

I took advantage of a ray of sun that entered the main room and started reading what the historian Arrian wrote about the last days of Alexander; he, like me, was enthralled by Alexander. He isn't one of those who criticize him harshly for what he did during his wars. Rather, he sees the greatness in the Macedonian king's character. I changed my place every few minutes to catch the daylight that filtered in through the window. Then I heard Fiona's footsteps.

She stood at the entrance to the main room, wearing her winter clothes and with a woollen mantle over her shoulders. She looked a little rested this morning compared to yesterday. I think I did the right thing when I insisted on her moving to a room on the ground floor, with us. This had spared her the effort of climbing the stairs to the upper floor. She sat down next to me and pointed at the book, saying, 'Am I interrupting your work?'

I smiled and held it out to her, saying, 'It's a book I've read many times before. I almost know it by heart.' She took it and looked at the cover. 'Another book about Alexander? I read it too, in my father's library. I know you're interested in Alexander because of what happened to him in this oasis, but why all these books? What do you find so fascinating about him?'

'His tomb!'

Fiona laughed out loud. 'His tomb? I thought what interested you was his life, not his corpse! Besides, I've read a lot about him and I don't like what he did at all. He spilt a great deal of blood and destroyed many cities. What he did at Tyre on Mount Lebanon is a sufficient example. It made His High and Mightiness very annoyed that its people should resist his attack on the city and that he should be obliged to lay siege to it for a long time before he broke through its defences. So he killed thousands of its people, by slaughter and crucifixion.'