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 ten-year-old dream. And he could almost believe he was that boy again.
He must resist that temptation. The truth was elsewhere.
‘Why do you ask these questions, Desi? What is it you want to know?’
‘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, unconsciously 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.
Chapter Fourteen
THEY 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 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