Gabriel moved backward to the bed and sat on its hard surface. His hands were trembling. In his own sister’s house, he was shaking. What had he hoped for? Compassion? Yes, a little. He scratched his forehead, entertained, almost, by his own narcissism, because only undiluted ego could have allowed him to expect open arms and a shoulder to lean on. And he was fearful now, because if Annie could not forgive him, no one ever would.
He had a quick shower, changed into lighter clothes, and went downstairs. Rolf and Annie were in another room—long and quite formal, with a blood-red hue about it, set off by dark red rugs and drapes. The seating, which ran along the wall, was low and soft and covered in cushions and bolsters.
“Nice,” he said.
“This is the diwan,” said Annie. “We use it all the time, but in traditional houses it’s like the reception room, used for special occasions.”
“Ah, like the Sunday room at home. Never used except when the priest calls.”
They were sitting rather stiffly in front of a tray (thermos jug, three glasses, bread and fruit—he was hungry suddenly), looking like stern parents who had discovered their teenager had been smoking pot in his room.
Gabriel tried to lighten the mood. “You two look like you’re about to give me a major telling-off.”
Annie leaned forward to pour. “What good would that do?”
“Might make you feel better.” He sat down.
“You think so?” she said, one eyebrow arched, her eyes on the stream of urine-colored liquid flowing from the jug.
They sipped their tea as Gabriel looked around at their accumulated artifacts: Eastern rugs, heavy timber chests, daggers with adorned silver hilts. How easily Annie wore this life, he thought. He envied her. He wished he’d done it. Got out. Away. Before he’d had to.
The tea was served in the small glasses and bitter without milk. He was a man who enjoyed a great wallop of milk in his tea, but he would get used to it, just as he must get used to other things. Like the light—so very bright, white almost, and cheering, as it shone through windows high in the wall. Gabriel felt the change of air, of country and continent, in his blood, which already seemed to be flowing thinner through his veins. “So this is an old-fashioned sultanate, yeah?” he asked. “And the sultan deposed his own father?”
Rolf nodded. “Twelve years ago, in 1970.”
“Sounds pretty cheeky. There’s no dissent?”
“He’s doing a lot for the country,” said Rolf. “There were nine schools in 1970, but schools and hospitals are opening every week now, and transport is improving, with new roads heading out in every direction. So of course he’s popular, but he’s low-key.”
Annie was nibbling on a corner of bread—nervously, Gabriel realized. Christ.
Rolf cleared his throat and grasped at conversational straws. “So, umm, you’ve escaped the deep freeze.”
Gabriel nodded. “That’s long over.”
Annie’s curiosity dived around her rectitude, like a rugby player getting over the line. “What was it like?”
“Bloody cold is what it was like. We didn’t have the snow they had in Dublin, but even in Cork people struggled to get about. Ice everywhere.” He wanted to add, Just like there is right here.
“Sandra wrote and said there was a lovely atmosphere, everyone helping out and being cheerful and stuff.”
“Yeah, I cleared quite a few driveways.”
And that was all it took for Annie to swerve right back into disapproval. “I should hope so. But doing good deeds for the neighbors won’t change anything.”
“Annie,” Rolf said quietly.
Gabriel turned to him with a sheepish glance. “Thanks, Rolf, for . . . fixing this. I hope it wasn’t too much hassle getting me that certificate thing.”
His brother-in-law lifted, then dropped one shoulder in a half-shrug.
“What does it mean—a ‘No Objection Certificate’?”
“It’s a type of visa. Oman is loosening up a bit, but you still have to be sponsored by an employer to get in.”
“So how did you pull it off? Do I have to work for someone?”
Rolf shook his head. “I explained your—our—circumstances to a well-connected friend of mine, Rashid al-Suwaidi. He owns an import‒export company and has other interests. He organized the paperwork.”
“Did you have to . . .”
Rolf gave him the hard eye.
“You know—baksheesh, or whatever it’s called.”
“Bribe him, you mean? He’s a friend, Gabriel. He did it for us. So for God’s sake don’t make any trouble for him.”
Gabriel raised his hands in apology.
Rolf stood up. “Baksheesh! Is that the extent of your understanding of this part of the world? The Arabs understand friendship better than any nation. Don’t forget that. I must go to work, Annie.”
“Don’t be late,” she said anxiously, as if she feared being left alone with her younger brother.
After he left, silence settled on them, like sepia over a print. Although it had been ages since they had had any proper time alone together, Annie had little to say, it seemed, and Gabriel even less. “So, you like it here?”
“You know I do.” With one finger, she pushed a corner of flatbread, smeared with honey, across her plate. “Even more than I expected, in fact. I’ve made great friends.” She put down her glass. “It’s a pretty good life, all in all.”
Annie was the only remaining person whom Gabriel could look straight in the eye, but it pained him to do so now, because there was only sadness there, and he could see a weight around her, as if the dense atmosphere that had been strangling him was also hugging her, curbing her movements. And that was him. He was the very density that restricted her.
She cleared her throat. “So, what do you want to do while you’re here?” she asked, as if he were some kind of tourist.
“What is there to do?”
“Well, there’s loads to see—mountains, desert, sea. People go fishing and snorkeling, but Rolf paints when he’s off work, which might be a bit dull for you.”
She made it sound like a personal reproach, which was another low blow. It had been Gabriel, after all, who had picked Rolf out of the crowd in a pub and had engaged him in conversation at the bar. Introductions were made, drinks were bought, and Annie was unobtrusively proffered. “Come and join us,” Gabriel had said to the visitor. “I’m with my sister.” With a formal nod and almost a click of his heels, Rolf declared himself to be enchanted when they were introduced at the small round table in the corner, though Annie was less impressed. He’d looked like an old bloke to her, but Gabriel had persevered, inviting him back to their home for supper, after which Rolf took over, wooing Annie in a quiet, discreet sort of way. Gabriel knew, instinctively, that he was the perfect life partner for his adored second self, and when the time had come for Rolf to leave Ireland, Annie found it inexplicably difficult to let him go. She had become accustomed to his presence, to the quiet fuss he made of her, to his curious English and his solid, attractive frame, so Gabriel told her to follow, even though that meant going to Oman, where Rolf had been working for some years. To her own surprise, she was easily persuaded. Her job in the bank was dull, the news always bad, with one or another atrocity reported daily from Northern Ireland, and the Republic was gray, grim, and sinking deeper into recession. The Arabian Gulf and the twinkling white town of Muscat, which Rolf had described, were, in contrast, attractive propositions.
They had married after a short courtship—it