When Yash arrived the next morning, I was already up and in the kitchen, furiously frying the bacon I’d gotten at the pork store. An hour before, I had stepped out with Mason to kiss him good-bye and found all the roses pulled out by the roots, in their place a fresh planting of night-blooming jasmine. “Faris did it,” I had said to Mason, who had lifted his hands, unmoved. “He’s an old man, set in his ways,” Mason had answered. “Best to leave it alone.”
I glared at Yash as though he might be in on it too. “Next thing I know,” I said, “Faris will be taking over the garden.”
Yash hesitated before pulling up the bar stool. “It is a piss patch,” he said, “if you will excuse me.”
“Yes,” I said, “but it’s my piss patch.” I dished up our eggs, took a deep breath. “What do you think I should do?”
Yash poured our cups full of coffee. “I think that you should let the gardener garden,” he said.
I looked at him for a moment, then dropped my shoulders and pulled up a stool. We ate in silence, sopping the yolk with our toast, until Yash rose to refill our cups. “It has been a long time since I have had a woman cook for me,” he said.
“What about your wife?” I asked.
He lowered his eyes, pressed the napkin to his mouth. “That has been many years ago.” I wanted to ask him more, but he gathered my plate, took it to the sink, and ran hot water.
“I’ve got to write about the Beachcomber’s Ball,” I said, and rested my chin on my hands. “I’ve been to polka jamborees, but never to a ball.”
“What is a polka jamboree?” he asked.
“You know, polka,” I said. “It’s a dance.”
He looked at me, pleasantly curious but with no recognition.
“Accordion.” I bellowed my arms in and out.
“Concertina,” he said.
“And sometimes a tuba.” I blew out my cheeks. “That’s the polka,” I said. “See?” I stood, took a few short-stepping hops around the kitchen.
Yash regarded me with stern amusement. “I beg that you do not do that at the ball.”
I stopped, dropped my hands. “It’s the only dance I know.”
He turned back to his chore. “Perhaps you will have pleasant conversation.”
“Do you know how to waltz?” I asked.
“I was forced to learn while attending school,” he said. “The British are exceedingly cruel that way.”
“Will you teach me?”
“Mrs. Ruthie will teach you,” he said. “I’m sure that her experience far exceeds my own.”
“But I don’t have time,” I said. “The ball is tonight.”
Yash raised his eyes. “And with whom will you be dancing?”
I lifted my chin. “Whoever asks me.”
“Then he will teach you.” Yash smiled evenly before returning to his cleaning, but now all I could hear in my head was the jumping beat of polka.
“Let me show you.” I removed the sponge from his hand. “Hold out your arms.”
He glanced at the blinded windows, sighed, then faced me as though presenting himself to a firing squad. I rested one hand on his arm and lifted the other. He brought his palm to meet mine, a good foot of space between us. I began singing nonsense words to the tune of a polka, pushing and pulling him into a two-four shuffle as we hopped out of the kitchen and through the dining room. He never looked down but stared straight over my head. By the time we had swung into the living room, he had taken the lead. We made another turn, knocked the tapestry from the wall, bounced the lamp shade cockeyed, circled the table, and came to a stop.
“See?” I said. “It’s fun.”
Yash rested his hands on his hips, trying to catch his breath. “It would not be mistaken for a waltz.” He smiled gamely and smoothed his hair. “Excuse me while I attend to the damage.”
That evening, I took out Ruthie’s emerald gown, dabbed each of my ears with alcohol, then swept my hair into a twist, added lipstick and rouge. All I needed was Ruthie’s help deciding on shoes. When I heard Yash answer the doorbell, I padded barefoot to meet her. Instead of the lovely yellow sheath, Ruthie wore a straw hat, a sleeveless flowered top tied at her rib cage, and ragged capris. She took one look at me and burst out laughing.
“It’s a theme party,” she said, “a Hawaiian beach bash. Don’t you read your own paper?”
I looked at Yash, who looked at me and shrugged.
“We don’t have much time,” she said. “Let’s see what we can come up with.”
I followed her into my bedroom, where she shuffled through my closet. “Nothing,” she said. She considered me where I stood helpless and starting to sweat. “Yash,” she called loudly, “bring the scissors!”
I watched as she went at the dress, trimming away the right sleeve altogether and slicing a diagonal line to the left. She cut the sleeve from that shoulder as well, leaving a thin strap, then went at the hem, angling it in a zigzag at midthigh. She held it against me. “The slip has to go. The bra too.” When I’d gotten them undone, she spun me around and dropped the dress over my head. The crisp material felt rough and alarming against my nipples.
“Ruthie,” I said, “I can’t wear this. If I sit down, it will hike clear up to my Christmas.”
“Your what?”
I pointed down there. “That’s what my grandmother called it.”
“I just cut a five-hundred-dollar dress into rags,” Ruthie said. “Don’t tell me you can’t wear it.” She pulled the pins from my hair, fluffed it free of its twist.
“What about shoes?” I asked.
“You’re shipwrecked. You don’t need shoes.” She pulled me down the hallway, where Yash stood too stunned to speak. Ruthie passed him the scissors. “Get us a flower, chop-chop.”
Yash came back in with a fragrant white blossom that Ruthie tucked behind my ear. “Let’s go. Linda will have all the men.”
I stuffed my notepad into my purse, then minced across the grass to her Volkswagen, the air cool against my bare legs as we drove through the dark to the recreation center.
“I feel funny doing this without Mason,” I said.
Ruthie huffed. “The husbands are always off somewhere,” she said. “In this place, you take what you can get when you can get it.” She parked and checked her makeup in the rearview. “You’ve got to love ambient lighting,” she said. “It covers up any number of flaws.”
“I’m still embarrassed.” I got out and stood at the curb, the warm asphalt sticky beneath my feet.
“Fine,” Ruthie said. “The keys are in the car if you want to go home.”
The blare of a band echoed across the patio lit with tiki torches and paper lanterns. I hesitated near a hedge of frangipani before following Ruthie across the tough grass and through the entrance to the courtyard, where a group of Filipinos knocked out a brassy rendition of “Pearly Shells.” Couples looped their way around the marble patio, the men in bright shirts, the women in sarongs and hula skirts, leis stringing their necks.
“See?” Ruthie said. “You don’t look any sillier than anyone else does.” She led me to a table near the bandstand, where Linda sat in a strapless floral dress, talking to a young man in his twenties with rust red hair, his skin a few shades lighter, as though he’d been caught in a rainstorm that bled the color down. He was dressed like a sailor, his white cap set at a rakish angle. He stood to greet us as we approached, but Ruthie stepped right past him and took his chair. “Thanks, Pat,” she said. “This is Gin.”
He pulled out the remaining chair for me, and I smelled Old Spice.
“Thank you,” I said, and tucked what I could of my insufficient skirt around my legs.
“Grab us a drink, will you?” Linda pointed Pat toward the refreshment stand, where a young Arab man ladled the punch. She leaned in. “Reminds me of a nasty dog sniffing around,” she said. “Just ignore him. He’ll go away.”
Ruthie looked over the dancers. “Get a load of that outfit Candy is wearing.”
I turned carefully so as not to expose more skin than was already showing, saw Candy doing the twist in a coconut-shell bra and a short skirt made of palm fronds that lifted to reveal a pair of scarlet panties. Burt Cane was doing his best to match her moves, the look on his face more pain than pleasure.
“Burt must have left Maddy at home,” Linda said. “Can’t say that I blame him.”
I thought about pulling out my notepad, but I couldn’t imagine what I might describe that would make it past the censors. Pat returned and set our drinks on the table.
“Oh, no,” I said, “I don’t really dance.”
“Of course you do.” Ruthie waved to the bandstand. “Get out there and hula.”
The musician on the ukulele had picked up the pace and swung into “Surfin’ USA.” Pat held out his hand, and I let him lead me to the dance floor, where we joined the crowd doing the watusi, the monkey, the mash. Pat started jumping from one toe to the other like he was riding a stick pony, and I shuffled my bare feet across the cool marble, arms pinned to my sides. When the song slowed and shifted into “My Girl” by the Temptations, I made a quick turn for the table, but Pat caught my hand, wrapped one arm around my waist, pulled me against him, and began swaying in a slow circle. I felt my breasts flatten against his chest, his fingers working the curve of my spine.
“Nice dress,” he said. His breath smelled like overripe cherries.
I took the opportunity to step back, put some air between us. “Your costume is good too,” I said.
“This is my uniform,” he said. “Just ended my tour and re-upped. Thirty-day vacation, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Visiting family for a few days, then it’s back to the Mekong Delta.” He tucked his chin near my ear. “You sure do smell good.”
I pushed away. “Listen,” I said. “I’m just here to take notes.”
Pat ran his gaze from my ankles to my eyes. “You can take all the notes you want.”
I turned quickly, bumping past several couples as I maneuvered back to our table. When I saw that Pat was following me, I kept going until I’d reached the women’s room. I stood in front of the mirror, unable to recognize myself, my hair in waves, the flower at my ear, my shoulders bare. When the door clacked open, I turned on the water, levered some soap, saw Candy Fullerton come in behind me.
“Well, Virginia McPhee.” She sidled up to the mirror, ran a finger beneath each eye.
“Hi, Candy.” I dried my hands and tried not to look at the swell of her breasts pinched beneath the hard husks of coconut.
She moved into the stall, and I heard the dry rustle of her skirt. “That sailor you were dancing with sure is cute.”
“Pat,” I said. “He’s here on leave.”
The toilet flushed, and Candy reappeared, still pulling up her red panties. “He’s my baby brother.” She leaned into the mirror, ran a tube of red lipstick around her mouth. “Remember, he’s keeping us safe from the Communists. Be nice to him.” She smacked, thrust the tube into the waist of her panties, and looked me up and down. “Looks like you could use a new dress.”
I gave a little laugh, not sure how funny she meant it to be. She crossed her arms, leaned a hip against the sink. “Where is that good-looking husband of yours?” she asked.
“He’s on tour,” I said. “I’m just here to cover the party for Sun and Flare.”
“Sure, hon.” Candy’s drawl dipped and slurred. “We all do what we can for the company.” She cocked her chin. “Mason is a real keeper, isn’t he? So smart and handsome. How do you hold on to a man like that?”
I opened my mouth but couldn’t find the words to answer. She smiled, but her eyes stayed flat. “He knows what he wants. I admire that in a man. That’s why I married Ross. He’s going to take us all the way to the top.” She checked the mirror one last time. “I’ll call you,” she said. “We can talk more over coffee.” She clipped out the door, and I counted to one hundred before following, relieved to see Linda and Ruthie at our table.
“I didn’t know Pat was Candy’s brother,” I whispered. I glanced around to see where he was lurking.
“She’s got a whole tribe of brothers. Catholics. They never know when to quit.” Ruthie stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and cut her eyes to where Candy was already bopping across the dance floor, jerking her arms to the beat. “She thinks she’s a coquette but she’s nothing but a tramp.”
I felt a light brush against my shoulder and looked up to see Burt Cane, his brightly flowered shirt ringed with perspiration. “Ladies,” he said, and focused on Ruthie. “May I have this dance?”
Ruthie pointed her cigarette at me. “Ask Gin. She’s fresh.”
“How about it, young lady? Care to show an old man some new steps?” He lifted the tips of my fingers and guided me to the floor, where we stood facing each other. When he started wringing his hips back and forth, moving his head in quick jerks, I touched his arm.
“Can you polka?” I asked loudly.
His face lit up. “I haven’t danced a polka since leaving Wisconsin in ’forty-nine.” He took my hand in his, cupped my waist. “But I bet I remember how.” We waited for the downbeat and dipped into the circle of dancers, weaving our way around and between, taking long strides and kicking behind, twirling until I grew joyfully dizzy and damp with sweat. People stopped to watch, clapping their hands as the band picked up the beat, and I heard myself laughing aloud, like a child spun giddily in her father’s arms.
When the song ended, Burt offered a little bow, then escorted me off the floor. “That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” he said. “Thank you.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze and moved back to his table, greeting others as he went.
“You’ve got to wonder how a nice guy like that ends up with an old bat like Maddy,” Linda said. She pulled at the top of her dress, which settled lower each time she danced.
“She might have been a different woman twenty years ago,” Ruthie said. “Bottom line is that Burt is a saint. Loyal to a T. He brings out the best in everybody.”
“Hard to believe that about Maddy.” Linda cast her gaze around the room. “There’s no one here worth tempting,” she said. “What fun is that?”
“Lance Powers just came in.” Ruthie nodded to where two men, one with long sideburns and a full crest of black hair, the other fair and sunburned, hunched over their drinks, deep in conversation.
Linda stood. “Let’s see if I can get his attention.”
Ruthie and I watched her sidle between the chairs, chat a moment at their table before motioning us over.
“What is she doing?” I asked.
“Whatever she has to,” Ruthie said, and rose with her drink. “Come on.”
The men jumped up to grab extra chairs, held them for us as we sat, and I wished for a wrap, something to cover my arms and legs.
“Gin, meet Lance and Wendell,” Linda said. “They’ve got something they’d like to share.”
Lance’s dark hair glistened with Brylcreem as he glanced around before lifting a flask and tipping it into our juice. His handsome cheekbones made me think he might be part Comanche or maybe Kiowa. He canted his shoulders Linda’s way. “So, you’re a Singles girl.”
“Don’t call her a girl,” Ruthie said. “She’s almost thirty years old.”
“Thanks, Ruthie.” Linda’s spark of anger made Ruthie laugh.
“So what? We’re experienced, that’s all.”
Wendell turned his attention on me, and I saw that his nose was blistered raw.
“You’re not thirty,” he said.
“She’s a baby,” Ruthie said before I could answer.
Wendell lifted his drink, touched it to mine. “Here’s to growing up.”
The second I raised the punch to my mouth and smelled the alcohol, I shivered and lowered it again. Wendell’s eyes settled on my breasts, then moved to my left hand. “Married,” he said.
“To Mason McPhee,” Ruthie said.
“Is that right?” Lance rolled an ice cube around in his mouth, lifted his head to Wendell. “He’s the newbie who got in between Swede and that driller yesterday.”
“Swede has always had a hair trigger,” Wendell said. “Bedouins just aren’t used to being yelled at.”
“Went further than that,” Lance said. “Knocked the raghead on his ass. Swede will get sent out, sure as hell, but that’s better than what he might have gotten.”
“Yeah,” Wendell said, “like a shiv in the ribs.”
I felt the hair at the back of my neck prickle. “What about Mason?” I insisted. “Is he okay?”
“He’s more than okay,” Lance said. “He took the Arab’s side, got himself a whole tribe of new friends.”
Wendell smirked my way. “Next thing you know, he’ll be bringing home a second wife.” Everyone laughed as though it were the funniest thing in the world.
Ruthie gave Lance a hard punch in the arm. “Give her a break, okay? She’s just getting used to the place.”
Lance worked his teeth around a toothpick as he considered me, the flaps of his nostrils flaring. “You might tell your husband that this ain’t the game he’s used to playing. Rules are different here.”
“Everything is different here,” Wendell said, “but in the same old way.” He lifted one side of his mouth. “We’re making it up as we go along, carving out our own little kingdom.”
“Kind of like royalty,” Linda said dryly.
“Yeah,” Ruthie said, “kings and queens of nothing.”
When I felt Wendell’s leg bump mine, I drew back, cast a hopeful glance at Ruthie. “I think I’m ready to go home,” I said.
“It’s not even nine o’clock.” She downed another swallow, tapped out a smoke. “Take the car. Linda is staying over. We’ll catch a ride.”
Linda had kicked off her shoes and had her feet in Lance’s lap. All around me, people were laughing, having fun. I hated how much I felt like Maddy Cane.
“I guess I’ll see you later, then,” I said. I stood, hesitated before turning, wishing that Ruthie and Linda and I had stayed at our own table. I didn’t see Pat until I was almost to the exit.
“Where you going, pretty lady?” His cap had fallen to the back of his head, the freckles of his face inflamed, flushed with booze.
I looked back to the table, but Lance and Wendell had ferried Ruthie and Linda to the dance floor. I scrunched my shoulders, suddenly cold.
“I just need to go home,” I said. “I have that article to write.”
“Oh, yeah,” Pat drawled. “You’re the writer.” He sidled a little closer, ran his fingers down my arm. “My sister says you’re a real smart girl.”
I flinched away and started to step around him, but he moved with me and braced one hand against the wall beside my head. “How about a nightcap for a soldier in uniform?” He pressed in, his hot breath brushing my neck.
“Excuse me.” The voice that came from behind him was deep and commanding. Pat jerked around, and I saw Burt Cane standing with the stiff posture of a London bobby. “I believe that the lady is ready to call it an evening.”
The cajoling grin fell from Pat’s face. He looked around like he was gauging his chances before snorting and stepping away.
“Go ahead, Gramps,” he said. “She’s all yours. About as warm as a block of ice.”
Burt waited for him to pass, then crooked his elbow my way. “May I?” he asked.
I took his arm, let him lead me. “It’s the Volkswagen,” I said.
“Oh, I know Ruthie’s car,” Burt said. “Come on. I’ll be your chauffeur.” He opened my door, took the wheel, knew just where I lived. “Maddy and I spent a lot of good hours with Buck and Betsy. But that’s been some time ago.” He grew quiet, his voice trailing away. When we pulled to the curb, I saw the porch light on, the living room lit from within.
“I think my houseboy is waiting for me,” I said.
“Yash Sharma,” he said. “He’s one of the good ones.”
“Mason says the same about you,” I said.
Burt looked down, then peered to where the glow illuminated the jasmine, opening its fragrant scent to the air, the line of tidy homes, the stars beyond. “When I first came to Arabia, we lived in tents right alongside the Bedouins. Nothing to do in the desert at night but sit around the campfire, sing songs, and tell stories.” He hummed a single note as though remembering the tune. “There was this young Bedouin man. He couldn’t read, but he could recite The Odyssey for hours. I’ll never forget that.” He looked to where the flares stoked the coal black sky, and I saw his face lift and fall in the shadows. “We all believed in what we were doing back then. I’m not so sure anymore.” We sat in silence until he brought his kind eyes to mine. “Your husband, he did the right thing with Swede.”
“Mason always does the right thing,” I said.
Burt brought up the corners of his mouth. “I’ll make sure your friends get home okay,” he said, and got out to open my door. I swiveled and stood, felt the sharp grass beneath my feet. When I held out my hand, he cupped it in both of his.
“I hope this place is good to you,” he said, then waited until I reached the porch before starting the engine and motoring away.
Inside, I found Yash sitting at the dining table, drinking tea and listening to the BBC.
“You are home early,” he said, pleased.
“I danced the polka,” I said.
Yash gathered his cup and saucer. “I never doubted that you would.” He stood and dusted his place at the table with his napkin. “I will clear this and be on my way.”
I said good night before moving to the bedroom, where I stripped off my dress and stepped into the shower, lathering the smoke from my hair, scrubbing my face clean, but I couldn’t get rid of the damp feel of Pat’s breath at my neck, the voice in my head telling me that I had no business going out without my husband, smoking and drinking and dressed like a tramp. What did I expect would happen? “The kind of bait you throw out,” my grandfather had warned me, “is the kind of fish you’re going to catch.”
No more, I promised myself, not without Mason, and curled around the kernel of conviction as though I might seed it in myself, force it to grow.
What I attempted over the remaining days of Mason’s tour was chaste occupation: I arranged my typewriter at the end of the dining table, knocked out notes on canasta teams and bowling scores. I agreed to join Ruthie for a game of bridge at the home of Lillian Duff, a buxom grandmother with silver hair and a thick strand of pearls at her neck. When we arrived and Lillian asked whether I preferred white or brown, I thought she meant bread. “She means sadiqi,” Ruthie translated, and the other wives laughed. I sat at Ruthie’s elbow, uncomprehending as the cards were dealt, trumps, tricks, and strains declared. I ate the few nuts from the miniature paper cup and then the key lime pie cut into slivers. By the time I got home, I was starving, grateful for the hearty beef stew that Yash had waiting.
“Do you know how to play rummy?” I asked him one morning, the only card game I had learned from Mason.
Yash straightened, cocked his chin. “You will never defeat me,” he said. I had come to understand that his arch demeanor was a kind of teasing, and it delighted me. I found a worn deck of cards inside the cabinet of the hi-fi, pushed aside my typewriter, and dealt us each a hand. We played for an hour, laying down runs and books of aces until Yash held up his palms in surrender. “I have met my match,” he said. He rapped the cards even, slid them into their box. “I read your article in Sun and Flare about the ball.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think you have a gift for spinning straw into gold.” He rose to gather our dishes, tsking. “The day is wasting away. I sit here playing games when I should be at market, finding a fresh chicken for our dinner.”
“I’ll ride the bus with you as far as Dhahran,” I said. “I’ve got another article to drop off.” I rolled “Fun Fabrics for Fiestas!” from the typewriter and folded it into an envelope. Yash stood as though perplexed.
“What?” I asked.
“I cannot ride your bus,” he said. “Only you are allowed.”
“Women?” I asked.
“White women,” he said, “and their children, of course.”
I stared at him. “But that’s segregation,” I said, remembering Rosa Parks and the Freedom Riders. “It’s illegal.”
“Perhaps in America,” he said, “but not here.”
I pointed to the ground. “But this is America,” I said.
Yash lifted his shoulders. “I would have to have sahib’s express instruction. You would have to be”—his eyes darted around the room as though searching for an answer—“you would have to be ill.”
“Come on,” I said. “I’m feeling kind of sick.”
“But, Mrs. Gin …”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I’m tired of all these ridiculous rules.”
I waited at the door until he took a hesitant step forward and followed me to the sidewalk. No matter how much I slowed, he remained three paces behind. I stopped, which brought him to a sudden halt.
“I’m not walking in front of you,” I said. “We can stand here in this heat, or we can get on the bus.”
He took a deep breath, brought himself abreast, and marched with his eyes straight ahead. We turned the corner, and I saw several women already waiting, including Maddy Cane, her hair secured by a scarf knotted tight beneath her chin, fanning herself with a copy of Sun and Flare.
“Hi, Maddy,” I said.
She dropped her arm and looked at Yash and then at me. “What is he doing here?” she asked.
“I’ve been having dizzy spells,” I said. “Too much sun, I guess. Mason asked him to ride with me.”
She acknowledged the bow of Yash’s head with a slight nod of her own, then turned back to me.
“The Beachcomber’s Ball sounds like it was quite the party.” She dabbed her throat with an embroidered handkerchief. “Burt told me that you two danced the polka.”
“Burt is very kind,” I said. “I’m a terrible dancer.”
“That’s not what I heard.” Maddy flapped her paper. “He’s got a bad heart, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry.” But I was remembering Burt’s jumping rhythm, his enthusiastic sweep around the dance floor, how he seemed less winded than I did.
Maddy looked sideways at Yash, who turned his attention to a nearby shrub. She craned her neck a little closer. “Your friend Ruthie seems to have enjoyed herself. Doesn’t she know how people are talking about her?”
I gave Maddy a weak smile, which seemed only to encourage her.
“She’s a married woman, and everyone knows that Linda Dalton consorts with colored boys. That Lance Powers.” Maddy fanned faster. “If Ruthie Doucet doesn’t care about her reputation any more than that, well.” She sniffed and drew her lips into a pucker. “You seem like a nice Christian girl. I’m surprised that you keep such company. Water finds its own level, you know.”
I felt my face tighten, the last ounce of goodwill leave my heart, my mouth open before I could stop it. “I’d rather be friends with Ruthie and Linda than some bitter old woman like you.”
Maddy drew back as though I had slapped her. I felt bad but not bad enough to apologize. I heard the chug of the bus and turned quickly, leaving Maddy where she stood. I stepped aboard and found a row with two empty seats, but Yash passed on by, headed for the back. I looked up to see Maddy zeroed in on me.
“Yash!” I snapped. He turned, startled, and I pointed to the seat beside me. He sat down, eyes averted, as though he might be called to task. I sighed with relief when Maddy reluctantly took a seat near the front next to a young mother with two energetic toddlers in tow.
“Thank you,” I said. “You saved me.”
He peered from beneath his brows to where Maddy sat and whispered, “From the very bowels of hell.”
I looked at him, surprised, and then felt it coming just as I had in church, a hand-covered giggle that expanded and grew into a hysterical cackle. Yash lowered his head and twisted his mouth to keep the air from escaping his lungs, but his merriment fed mine and soon we were in tears, weak with laughter, even the bus driver smiling into the rearview. Maddy glared straight ahead, and the other wives watched us from the corners of their eyes, except for the two toddlers who jumped up and down with glee even when their mother shushed them.
By the time we stopped in Dhahran, other than a few tittering aftershocks, Yash and I had regained our composure. I walked past Maddy without a glance and stepped off, left Yash to bear the remaining miles to al-Khobar alone.
I visored my eyes with the envelope, took in the hills, the flash of white houses, nicer than any in Abqaiq. Maybe we’ll live here someday, I thought to myself, and let the possibility find its gravity. Was that what I wanted? A house on the hill? I looked to the flat desert beyond, the unbroken sky, the shadow of the sea, and felt an undeniable yearning to be out in that open space.
A note on Nestor’s door read, “Back in five,” so I waited, studying the photographs framed on his walls—a caravan of camels shadowed by cirrus clouds that unfolded like wings, the refinery at Ras Tanura, its black cylindrical stacks and squat steel tanks wreathed in vaporous light, the desert transformed into an ethereal kingdom. Prints of high-masted sailing ships along the coast, a stern-faced emir looking out from his palace in Hofuf, boyish princes already weighted with the trappings of wealth, their bare feet buried in sand—even in black-and-white, there was a softness to the scenes, a connection I could almost feel, as though the camera itself were possessed of emotion.
What was it about those images that opened my eyes, made me see in a way I had never seen before? I can look back now and know it was at that moment when I felt something settle, the possibility of who I might yet be fall into place. I wanted to know how it happened, how you could take a hulking storage tank and turn it into a thing of beauty. I tilted my head, made out the photographer’s scrawl—Carlo Leoni—and felt something I hadn’t expected: envy. I wanted to know what he knew, how to do what he did.
When Nestor returned with a steaming cup of coffee and a sandwich, the stink of egg salad fouling the air, I slid the envelope in front of him.
“It’s about fun with fabrics,” I said.
He eked out a smile. “I’ll take a look this afternoon,” he said, pushing a pencil across the lines of a legal pad.
I nodded to the photos on the walls. “They’re beautiful,” I said.
Nestor raised his eyes, settled back in his chair. “Leoni is one of the best. He loves whatever he sees, and whatever he sees loves him.”
“Maybe I could take some pictures,” I said.
He tapped the pencil against his lips, shrugged, opened a drawer, and pulled out a brand-new Nikon. “It’s yours,” he said. I tucked the camera close. I wasn’t about to tell him that I had no idea how to work it, but maybe he could have guessed. “Do you know how to run a darkroom?” he asked.
“I can learn,” I said.
“Just drop your film. We’ll get to it,” he said, and went back to his notes.
I caught the return bus to Abqaiq, took in the shaded faces of the wives, the muted stream of traffic blurring by, focused, then lowered the lens, dissatisfied. What Carlo Leoni had that I didn’t was out there, where I couldn’t go—the open desert, that endless sea. How could I even begin to capture the people and landscape when I was closed up in a house inside a closed compound inside a society and a country that were closed to me in so many ways because I was a woman?
I thought about Carlo’s photos, how it was that he could take in so much and all at once, as though his appetite were enormous, his eyes bigger than his head. I put the camera in my purse, looked out the sand-scoured window, and wondered what it would feel like to walk through the world with such ease and affection, if I must first be a man to know.
The next evening, Mason due home from his tour, I remembered what Ruthie had said: food, sex, and sleep. I let Yash go early, put on a shorter skirt, styled my hair, dabbed a little lipstick, and cued up Ed Ames on the hi-fi. When the Land Cruiser pulled up out front, I met Mason at the door with the martini I had left to chill in the freezer. He took it with a smile, tipped a long swallow, and I tucked my face into his neck. He smelled like something I could almost taste—wet salt, a bitter green, like wind off the sea. When I looked over his shoulder, I saw Abdullah watching us. He met my eyes for a moment before letting out the clutch and driving away.
Mason handed me his glass. “Why don’t you get me a refill while I take a shower,” he said.
I came back with more booze and waited in the doorway of the bathroom until he turned off the water and stepped out, rubbing his head with a towel. He’d never been shy about his body, but it still seemed new to me. I sometimes studied him when he was sleeping: the notch of bone at this throat, the rise of each rib, the strange dark nipples, the swirl of hair like an arrow, the tender muscle that nested in the vee of his legs. He wrapped the towel at his waist, moved to the mirror, and raked a comb through his hair.
“Gray,” he said, plucking at his temple. “I’m getting old.” He rested his hands on the vanity. “You know what I miss? Playing basketball, I mean really burning up the court.”
I tucked my arms. “It’s my fault,” I said.
“No,” he said, and peered at me in the mirror. “I knew what I was doing, and I’ve never been sorry.”
I scrunched my shoulders, made self-conscious by his gaze. “What happened with Swede?” I asked.
He hesitated. “How do you know about that?”
“Ruthie told me,” I lied. “She hears everything.”
Mason grunted, picked up the shaving cream. “Swede took a dislike to me from the get-go. Thinks the Arabs are good for one thing and one thing only, and that’s getting the oil out of the ground.” He lathered his face, wiped one finger across his lips. “They’re doing all the work, making ten cents an hour to my dollar, have no sense how much that oil is bringing in.” He stretched his neck, ran the razor along his jaw. “When Ross Fullerton called to get my side of the story, he told me that the day a man takes the helm is the day he no longer knows what’s going on with his own crew. He said that’s why he needs men like me.”
“I saw Burt Cane,” I said, and leaned into his back, circled my arms at his waist. “He said to tell you that you did the right thing.”
Mason patted his face with a towel, rinsed the sink, and turned to me. “Lucky wants to take us boating tomorrow. You can wear that new swimsuit. Sexy as hell.” He pulled me close, and I pointed my elbow at the bidet.
“Do you know what that is for?”
He laughed through his nose. “Yeah,” he said, “I do.” He ran his lips across my shoulder, then turned me to face the mirror, moved behind me.
“Watch,” he said. I pressed back against him and lifted my gaze as he murmured his pleasure into my ear, but I couldn’t keep my eyes from that woman whose hair fringed her shoulders, her lips stained with color, and the man behind her, his head thrown back, his neck exposed, his body arching upward as though he were the one being taken.