an ancient rhythm burn up inside them, the summons of that urgent, age-old necessity that is the
heartbeat of life. It began to move in them, through them, and they were helpless on the current of its
urgency, the pulsing, pushing beat that took them closer and closer to the place where time is destroyed
in eternity.
The fire watched greedily, coating their limbs with light and shadow, as they moved and embedded
deeper and deeper into each other’s being, towards the one.
They cried out as they approached it, cried their helpless pleasure, their consuming need, to all who
would hear: earth and water and fire and air, and sky and time and nothingness and all, and then they
were there, and all need, all urgency, exploded in a blaze of honeyed light that swept out from the tiny
space where souls and bodies met, to enrich all creation. And, bathed in its glow, blinded by its
brightness, for that place cannot be seen by mortal eyes, for one moment of perfection they cried out
their gratitude, and then, slowly, because they must, sank back together into the abode of separation.
The firelight died, and still they lay entangled, unwilling to let the world enter between them again. But
soon the desert chill invaded both body and soul.
“Now we know,” said Salah, and there was something in his tone that chilled her even further, because it
told her nothing had changed.
“Do we?”
“It was real,” he said. “It was there. We destroyed it, but it was real.”
“Is it better to know?” she asked bitterly, feeling somehow that it was tonight, not ten years ago, that she
had created the real heartbreak for herself.
She stiffened to ward off pain, but Salah didn’t answer. He sat up as night insects, drawn by the scent of
honey, approached, and threw a few more dried fronds onto the dying blaze before disappearing down
towards the pool, now shrouded in darkness.
Desi dug in her pack, got out her night gear and pulled it on, then sat there as smoke and flame curled up
on the air, trying to see her way into the future.
He came out of the darkness like a pagan god, naked and strong, his body glistening with wet. As he
pulled a towel out of his own pack and rubbed himself dry, she watched with detached admiration, as if
at a work of art, until he had put on his night clothes and sat down again.
“Are you going to marry Sami?”
Salah shrugged and lifted a stick to stir the fire. “It is not agreed yet. But why not? I must marry
someone.”
“How can you talk about it so calmly? You know what love is. You remember how it feels. How can
you contemplate marrying someone you don’t love?”
In the firelight her eyes were dark, watching him. He turned his attention to the fire.
“The best love comes after marriage,” he said. “You create a life together, and love each other within
that life. It is easy to love the mother of your children.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I told you once, Desi!” he growled. “I will never love again in the way that I loved you. It is
impossible. I do not wish it. It is better to marry in the old way—find your wife first, and then learn to
love her. The other way is heartbreak.”
Who had he first heard it from? His uncle? His grandfather? He couldn’t remember now, but that it was
wisdom his own life had proven. It was best to marry calmly. Strong feelings could always turn into
their opposite.
They sat in silence for a few moments. “Is it because of your parents? Are they pressing you to marry?”
“I told you, my parents have been pressing me to marry for ten years. They have given up asking me.
But they are right, it is time. I am nearly thirty. I am the eldest of my family.”
“Why now? Why Sami?”
“There are reasons why a wife born and educated in the West is a good idea.”
“What reasons?”
The moon was rising. Salah, his arms resting on his knees, gazed at her for a long moment. In firelight
her face was hauntingly beautiful; no wonder that fingers of flame and shadow warred to caress it. He
could not love her again, all that was past. But through the curls of smoke still she was a dream, a tenyear-
old dream. And he could almost believe he was that boy again.
He must resist that temptation. The truth was elsewhere.
“Because I don’t believe it! Something doesn’t add up.”
“Why not?” He raised an eyebrow.
“I—I just think it’s an extremely odd match, you and Sami. You’re cousins!”
“By our tradition, that is the best match.”
“But do you and Sami think so?”
“Some women raised abroad seek to retain connection with Barakat in this way. It means their children
will have the right to citizenship in two countries. With the world so uncertain, that is not a bad thing.”
“Is that what Sami wants?”
“Perhaps.”
“And what about your own reasons?” she asked again.
He tossed something into the fire that crackled and sent sparks up to the treetops. “This comes at a time
when I may have to move abroad and it will be best not to go on a diplomatic passport.”
He felt her shock and wondered why it struck her so forcibly.
“You’re going to be living in the West?” she gasped.
“Why not?”
“But you’re a Cup Companion! Your life is here! At least—isn’t it?”
“My duty is elsewhere, however. I did not become a Cup Companion for the privileges, but to do what is
necessary for my prince and my country.”
“And what duty requires you to move abroad?”
“This I cannot discuss with you, Desi.”
“How long?”
“Why are you asking? Why do you want to know?” he asked, and watched as her face closed. With
distant anger, he wondered who had asked her to ask these questions, which he should not have
answered. His guard was down.
Salah tossed the stick he was holding onto the fire.
“Let’s get some sleep,” he said.
Desi lay sleepless beside him long after his breathing told her Salah was out.
I still love him. I could tell him so. Ask him to love me again. The thought tortured her. She was half
convinced that he was lying to himself when he said his love for her was dead. She, too, had believed
herself immune, and how wrong she had been!
He wanted to move to the West. He wanted a Western wife. If she confessed the state of her heart might
he pretend to love her for such a reason? At least he could be sure the sex was good. What if he thought,
why not marry Desi, as easily as Sami?
Why not? whispered the voice of temptation.
Desi had never really understood what had motivated his letter. When the first flush of guilt and grief
had passed, she had been almost sure that it was something to do with his illness. He had been shot in
the head, she knew that. He’d been very ill for weeks. So for a long time she’d lived in hope that another
letter would come, telling her he’d been delirious…but it never came.
But that was ten years ago. Why hasn’t he got some distance on it? How can he still judge me the way he
did? Is it just habit? Did he really never take it out and look at it? I’ll talk to him tomorrow.
She must be careful. Because if what he really wanted, unco
nsciously or not, was to punish her for his
inability to love another woman, she might offer him the perfect means. She was so vulnerable, yearning
for his touch, melting at his nearness. How much more vulnerable she would be as his wife!
But…her heart whispered…he’s determined to love his wife, whoever she is. If he could love me again…
he’s planning to live in the West, who knows for how long? Maybe we could live in two worlds. It’s
doable.
She argued with herself while the moon tracked her serene path across the heavens, and came to no
conclusion.
Fourteen
T hey were up before the sun. Desi bathed in the oasis pool, but the water left her skin feeling sticky,
and afterwards she rinsed as best she could in a tiny ration of bottled water. Still feeling slightly grubby,
she got into clean white cargo pants and a loose long-sleeved white shirt, hoping by this means to keep
the heat off better than yesterday. She stuffed her hair up under her straw hat and felt a welcome
morning breeze caress the back of her neck.
What she’d give for a shower!
Just before noon the desert monotony was broken by distant rocky hills and a long line of green on the
horizon. Mount Shir towered above the scene, remote and majestic. They must have been travelling
north for some time, but she had been too involved with her thoughts to notice.
“What’s that green I see?” she asked.
“That is Wadi Daud.”
“Wadi—does that mean oasis?”
“Wadi means a valley, or a riverbed, where there is water only in the rainy season. But Wadi Daud has
underground water and there is an irrigation project there, so it is green all year round. Not so green now
as it will be in a few months, but still pleasant.”
Desi was surprised when a paved road appeared in front of them; she’d thought they were miles from
such niceties. Salah turned onto it in a cloud of dust, and not long afterwards it slanted down into a
broad, flat, rough-hewn valley with steep walls of purple-grey rock and a floor of green that stretched for
miles in both directions. In the centre of the valley a stream trickled over a stony bed.
“In winter that is a torrent,” Salah said. “In summer it often dries up completely.”
Soon they were driving through palm and olive groves. Along on the other side of the valley she saw a
small village amongst the greenery.
“Is that where we’re headed?”
“I have friends who will give us lunch.”
The house was like those she’d seen in the city: low, white and domed, set in the middle of a broad
courtyard surrounded by a high white wall. A servant opened the outer door to them with a murmured
“Marhaban,” and the blistering heat of the midday sun was instantly mitigated by the shade of
numerous trees and the sound of a fountain.
A strikingly attractive woman with flashing black eyes and black curls cascading down her back came
out of the house, smiling and calling what was obviously a warm greeting in Arabic. In a cotton summer
dress, she had bare legs and feet; her arms were bare save for a few bracelets.
“Marhaban, marhaban jiddan, Salah! Nahnou…”
“Desi, Nadia,” Salah said, just as Desi took off her hat to wipe her forehead and her fair hair came
tumbling down. “Desi doesn’t speak Arabic, Nadia.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Nadia’s level gaze met hers with a frowning smile as the two women shook hands.
“Hello, how are you? Welcome! You are very welcome! Salah, it’s so good to see you!” she said.
“Ramiz will be here in a minute. Come in, come in!”
She led them across the shady but still hot courtyard and into the cool of a large, airy room whose decor
seemed to blend West and East, modern and ancient, with perfect ease. It was a massive, spreading
space obviously covering most of one floor of the house, protected from the midday sun by greencovered
canopies and thick walls.
The furniture was a mix of Western and Eastern, with conventional sofas and chairs and coffee tables in
a cluster at one end, and cushions on a massive knotted silk carpet at the other.
The right hand wall had sliding glass doors looking out on to an obviously antique, mosaic-tiled pool
with a fountain that reminded Desi of what she had seen at the palace. The left wall was a stunning row
of pillars and delicately fluted arches through which could be seen an endless maze of pillars, arches,
and mosaic floors, and the corner of a distant, sunny courtyard.
It took Desi a moment to realize that the entire scene was a trompe l’oeil painting. She was looking at a
solid wall.
“This is spectacular!” she exclaimed involuntarily, stopping to gawp as Nadia, happily chatting to Salah,
led them along the length of the room down to a sofa at the far end.
Nadia and Salah turned in surprise, then, seeing what had caught her, laughed.
“I love it, too,” Nadia confessed with a smile. “You haven’t seen it since it was finished, Salah, yes?
That shows how long since you visited us! Anna finished it almost three months ago. She’s a
perfectionist, she kept coming back with her paints to put on ‘the final touches’! But now it’s done.”
“It’s magnificent,” Salah agreed.
“Like living in a palace,” said Nadia, grinning up at him. “Or is it?”
“It’s like a page from a fairy tale!” Desi said, still gazing, and feeling a little as if she’d been put under
an enchantment. “Who is the artist?”
“You may have heard of her. She is English, but she lives here in Western Barakat. Her name…”
“Oh, my God, is this an Anna Lamb? Of course!” Desi exclaimed. “She did one in London for Princess
Esterhazy, and then everyone was after one! Fabulous, too, but not nearly as extensive as this.”
Nadia stared at her for a moment, then smiled broadly.
“Oh my goodness! I knew I’d seen you before! You’re Desirée! How amazing!”
“I didn’t expect to be recognized so far from…home,” Desi laughed. She was glad she had stopped
before saying civilisation.
“We read Vogue in West Barakat, too! But what are you doing here? How do you come to know Salah?”
At that moment a dark, thin-faced man came into the room, closely followed by two servants carrying
trays.
“Salah! Great to see you!” he cried, as the two men embraced. “What are you doing in Qabila?”
Salah turned. “Desi, this is my very good friend Ramiz.”
Soon the four were seated on sofas around a low table, on which had been placed jugs of juice and
water, and tall glasses.
“So why are you here? Just touring? Or is it a modelling assignment?” Nadia asked eagerly. “That
would be exciting for us, to have Barakat used as a background.”
“No, something much more interesting, as far as I’m concerned. I wouldn’t spend days camping out in
the desert for a shoot, let me tell you!” She paused and looked at Salah, wondering if his friends knew
about his father’s site.
“Camping out in the desert?” Nadia repeated in amazed tones. “In this heat?”
“Desi wants to see an archaeological dig in progress,” Salah filled. “I’m taking her to Baba.”
Ramiz’s eyebrows went up. He exchanged a look with Salah, and then his eyelids drooped, masking his
expression. The sound of a child’s voice came from the next room, and for the first time Desi realized
that one of the doorways under the painted arches was real.
“But I don’t understand,” Nadia said. “Why are you..?”
“You haven’t seen Safiyah for a long time,” Ramiz said to Salah, over her. “She misses you. You’ll be
surprised by how much she’s grown. Tahir, too.”
“Ayna Safiyah?” Salah called. “Ayna walida jamilati?”
The child’s high shriek answered him, and then a little girl came tearing into the room and ran straight
into his arms, followed by a woman carrying a baby.
“Aga Salah! Aga Salah!” the child cried.
Desi watched as Salah swung the shrieking child up into the air. His face was suddenly soft, his
expression relaxed and warm. The face of the Salah she remembered.
He was not lost, the man she had loved. He was still there, underneath. If only she could reach him.
“Have you really been camping out in the desert at this time of year?” Nadia asked Desi against the
background of the child’s chatter. “What’s Salah thinking of?”
“He did warn me, but I insisted. This is the only time I had to visit. The first night we stayed with
nomads. Last night at Halimah’s Rest.”
Nadia frowned and shook her head. “Was the water clean enough to bathe in?”
“Call it a large puddle.”
Nadia looked at her. “And then you drove all morning in the desert to get here? Salah must be crazy!”
“I haven’t felt so grubby and sticky since I was five and my father took me for a day at the fair,” Desi
laughed.
“Desi,” Nadia said hesitantly, “would you like to take a shower now? I am sure…”
“Oh, could I?”
So Nadia showed her to a bathroom, gave her towels and soap, and left her to indulge herself. Never had
water been such bliss! She could have stayed under the cool flow for half an hour, but even here in Wadi
Daud water must be a precious resource at this time of year. She restricted herself to five minutes.
She came out feeling human again, her newly washed hair twisted up on top of her head, her face
cleansed, her skin breathing for the first time in two days. Heaven.
In the sitting room, meanwhile, Nadia took a protesting Safiyah away to get her lunch. Ramiz and Salah