Mason woke me the next morning by standing at the foot of the bed and rocking the mattress with his knee. When I opened my eyes, I saw him in his boxers, buttoning his khaki work shirt from bottom to top. “I want you to stay inside the compound until I get off this tour,” he said, twisting his cuffs.
I sat up and tried to focus. I thought it was because I had let Badra run, or maybe it had something to do with Alireza and Bodeen, but Mason shook his head. “We got bigger concerns. Word just came down that something is heating up between Egypt and Israel. Probably only a bunch of saber rattling, but it could turn serious.” He flapped his pants from their fold. “Some of the men are already flying their families out to Rome. If you can’t promise me you’ll stay in this compound and mean it, I’m going to send you out right now.” He strapped on his belt, picked up his duffel, and slapped on his cap before stepping close, lifting my chin. “And not a word about Bodeen and the ledger, okay?” When I gave a confused nod, he peered at me for a moment, then kissed my forehead and walked out of the room. When I heard the Land Cruiser grind into gear, I pulled on my robe and moved my pout to the kitchen, where Yash kneaded bread.
“I don’t even know what this thing with Egypt and Israel is all about,” I said.
“It is about territory,” he said, and gave me a ball of dough to round and flatten. “The gentiles will not allow the Israelis to have more, and the Israelis will take no less.”
It dawned on me that I was living in the Promised Land. “The Valley of Abraham,” I said.
Yash nodded. “Christians, Jews, Muslims, all claim Abraham as their father, and see what a happy family it has made.” He tightened his lips. “Since the creation of Israel, there has been conflict at the borders, but Egypt is amassing troops, and Israel will not be intimidated. The Arabs who have spent centuries attempting to destroy one another will gladly join together against the Israeli colonizers.” Yash grew pensive. “Years ago, the British, in their ineffable fashion, promised Faisal a united Arab nation, then pieced out Israel and Palestine behind his back. He doesn’t show himself to be a vengeful man, but one wonders about the fury of his dreams.”
I remembered my grandfather’s fiery sermons from the book of Revelation. “The Bible says that the Antichrist will bring all the gentiles together,” I said, “and then comes the Tribulation.”
“If memory serves me,” Yash said, “it entails a great deal of pain and suffering.”
“The Seven Seals and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” I said, “and pestilence.”
The doorbell rang, and Yash looked up at the clock’s early hour. “Ah, yes,” he sighed.
Lucky busted in before either of us could reach the hallway, brandishing a bottle, Ruthie nudging in against him, looking like she hadn’t slept a wink.
“Genuine Cuban rum is what we got here,” he announced, “straight from Bahrain.” He knocked back a swallow and hissed through his teeth. “Damn, that’s fine.” He handed me the bottle and looked around. “Where’s that husband of yours?”
“He had an early meeting,” I said. I took a drink of the rum, found it surprisingly sweet.
Lucky’s smile tightened. “What meeting?”
I lifted one shoulder. “Maybe it’s about Israel and Egypt,” I said.
“Hell,” Lucky said, dropping back and cutting his eyes at Ruthie. “I talked to the fellas at the airbase, and they say it’s a big fuss over nothing. The militia has it under control.”
“That’s a bunch of bullshit, and you know it,” Ruthie said, and took the bottle. “When have these people ever been under control?”
“Listen,” Lucky said, “I’ve got my sidearm loaded and my machete nice and sharp. Arabs want to come over that fence, I say let them come.”
She rolled her eyes toward me, her skin pale in the harsh light of the kitchen. “I’m headed to the airport, Gin. They’re flying me out.” She lowered her face, her voice distant and strained. “They’re always shipping us out somewhere.” She handed me the bottle, lit a cigarette, and I saw that her hand was shaking as she rubbed her temple with one thumb. “I have such a headache,” she said. “It must be the rum.” She let out a breath. “I’ve got to use the bathroom before we go.”
Lucky waited until she was out of earshot before looking at me from beneath his brow. “She needs to get on out of here for a while,” he said. “I don’t want no one giving her a hard time.” I took another drink, then passed the bottle to him, looked down, and wiped my cheeks. He rested his hand on my shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. “That’s the girl,” he said, then straightened and looked at me with new seriousness. “Listen, sis, there wasn’t no meeting this morning.” I brought up my eyes, and his face took on a pained expression. “That boy of yours is on some kind of crusade, and I’m worried he don’t know what he’s getting into. I told him he’d better leave it alone, but he won’t listen.”
“He won’t listen to anybody,” I said.
“Stubborn as a mule,” Lucky agreed. “Ruthie don’t like how tight a rein he keeps on you.” He took another drink of rum and passed the bottle to me, like we were toasting good times. “What’s he up to, anyway? I mean besides all this rabble-rousing about labor. He’s got some big bone he’s chewing on.”
I had forgotten how smooth real liquor could be, how it could wash down any misgivings I might have about breaking another of my promises to Mason. I took a big swallow, passed the bottle back, and lowered my voice so that Yash couldn’t hear.
“Mason thinks that Buck Bodeen was cooking the books, skimming money from Materials Supply,” I said. “That’s what caused the explosion at the plant.”
Lucky peered at me for a moment and then grimaced and wagged his head. “Bodeen,” he said. “Always trying to run the numbers.” He nodded once. “You tell Mason I’m behind him on this all the way. Anything I can do, he just says the word.” He straightened when we heard Ruthie come out of the bathroom. He considered the bottle, took a last drink, then handed it back to me. “Keep what’s left for when this mess is over,” he said. “We’ll have us a fine celebration.”
“We’re leaving the Volkswagen,” Ruthie said. “Lucky has his pickup, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t use the car while I’m gone.” She tugged at Lucky’s hand, and I moved with them to the door, where Ruthie hugged me hard. “If things get too bad,” she said, “you can always come to Rome. I’ll take you shopping. Via Condotti is the best.” She lifted her shoulders. “I just hope they’ll let me back in.” She looked out over the compound. “I don’t know what it is about this place,” she said. “At first you don’t want to come here, and then you never want to leave.”
Lucky pulled her close, and she leaned her head into his chest, wiped her eyes. “Let’s get this over with,” she said, and I watched them get in the pickup and drive off down the road, then took one last drink from the bottle before taking it to the kitchen. When Yash came in, he found me at the counter, eating almonds and staring drunkenly at the blinded window, wondering what it would be like to be with Ruthie in Rome.
“Ruthie is leaving,” I said as though to myself. “Flying to Rome until this is over.”
Yash considered my words, then tied on his apron. “It is a good day for saag and roti,” he said.
I sat at the counter, glum and silent, and watched him mix spinach with onion, garlic, ginger, and chickpeas. He fried several rounds of bread dough before moving them beneath the broiler to puff, then pulled them out with his tongs, spread one with ghee, and handed it to me.
“It is good to have comfort,” he said, “in times of tribulation.”
I breathed in the turmeric and coriander, then lifted the napkin to my face, but too late—Yash had already seen that I was crying.
He stood awkward in his apron, then squared his shoulders like a soldier bringing himself into formation. “Perhaps some more rum,” he said, “in your tea.”
I shook my head, blew my nose into the napkin, which brought up Yash’s eyebrows. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that everything feels so wrong.”
“Remember where we are,” Yash said.
“This isn’t funny,” I said.
He eased out a breath. “No,” he said, “it is not.” He tilted his head. “If not rum, perhaps rummy?”
I smiled a little and stood to get the deck of cards, but Yash held out his hand.
“First,” he said, “you will finish your lunch.”
“Who are you?” I asked. “My mother?” He didn’t answer but simply went on about his chores, and I finished my lunch and felt better.
Except for Ruthie’s absence and my detention, that day and the next passed like so many others: I read, worked on crosswords for the paper, puttered in the garden, watched TV with my feet up while Yash vacuumed the carpets, and played more games of rummy than I had in the totality of my life. Not a single mention of Israel appeared in the Sun and Flare or any other paper we could read, but we listened to what news came over the radio, caught bits of President Nasser’s inflamed speeches accusing Israel of hostilities and then Moshe Dayan’s equally adamant rebuttals.
“Who is telling the truth?” I asked Yash one day over lunch, but he shrugged.
“The victor will write the history,” he said, rising to resume his dusting, “but the truth we may never know.”
“Maybe I’ll go for a swim,” I said. I had been watching the children at their lessons, and, when they were done, sliding into the shallow end to mimic their movements.
Yash nodded his approval. “An excellent decision,” he said. “The moist air is good for your lungs.”
“Do you know how?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “It was a part of my education. I excelled at water polo.” And then, as if reading my mind: “It is a game for boys, so it will do no good to ask me to teach you.”
“Abdullah’s sister is teaching me,” I said. “To swim, anyway. I met her when Lucky got us lost in the desert. We might still be there if Abdullah hadn’t found us.”
Yash straightened and looked at me. “Did his mother feed you her famous locusts?” he asked.
“Just dates,” I said, “and lots of tea. But I loved it, Yash. It felt so good to be out there instead of stuck in this house all day.”
“I’m sure that I wouldn’t know,” he said.
“But even if you can’t drive, you’re a man. You can go wherever you want,” I said. “And I bet you’ve ridden a horse before.”
“It will come as a shock,” he said, “but the Arabs did not bring forth the horse from their own spit and a handful of sand.” He rested his elbow at his waist. “I would wager that the Manipuri horses of India have carried soldiers into more wars and raced to more victories than any breed in history, including your Bedouin’s precious Arabian ponies.”
“He’s not my Bedouin,” I said, but I secretly liked the sound of it.
Yash sniffed and went on. “The Manipuri came with the Tartar invasion, as did the game of ground polo.” He looked at me. “Surely,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “I’ve seen it on TV. But I bet women can’t play that either.”
“Not so,” he said. “As far back as the fifth century, in Persia, in China, women and their horses have competed on the polo field.”
“Then I want to learn,” I said, and glanced at him before lifting my cup. “Maybe Abdullah will teach me.”
He saw that I was teasing him and tucked his mouth to the side before growing more pensive.
“In the military, I rode a fine horse.” He nodded, remembering. “But it is different here for me than it is for you. You think of me as a free man, but even if I had the means to buy or borrow a horse, I am not at liberty to come and go as I please.”
“You make it sound like you’re a slave or something,” I said.
Yash looked at me with a kind of fondness, as though he found my ignorance endearing. “Slavery was abolished in this country five years ago,” he said. “We are now called houseboys and maids.” I watched him push through the swinging doors into the kitchen, then turned back to my lunch.
“Yash?” I called.
He cracked one door. “More coffee?” he asked.
“I just wanted to say thanks,” I said. “Sometimes I forget.”
“A votre service,” he said. He lifted his nose. “French, I can teach you.” And he let the door pip shut.
Instead of walking to the recreation center that afternoon, I drove the Volkswagen as though a few blocks might gain me some distance. Without Ruthie, the camp felt even smaller, as though it were closing in around me. The pool was empty, the Arab workers standing about with little to do but watch. Whenever my eyes met theirs, they looked away, and I felt an unease settle into the pit of my stomach. The Bedouin boys at the snack bar, the old Arab we called Tommy who ran the movie projector, Faris in my garden, Habib at the gate—they were part of my every minute, made my life in that place possible. I remembered Abdullah’s words: We are everywhere, part of everything, beginning to end.
I practiced swimming underwater, came up for a breath, and saw Candy Fullerton mincing toward me in a lemon-drop bandeau and matching mules, her blond hair pushed back by a polka-dot band. I groaned when she waved brightly and settled her beach bag on the lounger next to mine. I climbed the short ladder and wrapped the towel at my waist, wanting more than anything to make a quick exit, but I took a deep breath and settled in beside her, thinking that she, if anyone, would know what was happening outside the gates.
“What’s going on out there, anyway?” I asked.
She stopped applying Coppertone long enough to look at me blankly.
“Israel and Egypt?” I said.
“Oh, that.” She flapped her hand, then dug through her bag for her compact. “You live here long enough, you don’t pay attention to that stuff anymore. If it gets too bad, they’ll evacuate.”
“Ruthie already flew out,” I said.
“It’s just as well. She doesn’t really belong here, anyway.” When I stiffened, she brought up her mirror, applied a thick layer of white cream to her nose. “Don’t get huffy. I’m just saying she doesn’t fit in, that’s all.” She rolled out her lipstick, bowed her mouth, and made three perfect swipes of pearly pink. “Maybe now you’ll have time for that golf lesson,” she said, and smoothed the pouch of her stomach. “I haven’t had a putting partner since Betsy flew the coop.”
I waited for a moment, thinking that I could ask her about Buck Bodeen, remembered what Mason had said about keeping quiet. I rolled my towel and pulled on my dress. “I really need to get home,” I said.
“Too bad,” she said. “Your tan is fading out.” She pushed up her breasts and dipped a finger into her cleavage as though she were checking its depth. “Carlo Leoni is retaking my portrait this afternoon. The first time, the light was all wrong.” She hardened her mouth. “Maddy told me you brought your houseboy on the bus.”
“I was sick,” I said.
“Next time, just stay home.” She pushed on her dark glasses, then lifted her chin. “Not that you care,” she said, “but I got a telegram from my mother. Pat’s boat got hit. They flew him out to Japan.” She jerked her head. “It wouldn’t have killed you to be nice, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, but she acted like she didn’t hear. I stood for a long moment before turning for the exit. As bad as I felt about Pat, I was glad to be back in the Volkswagen, glad to be leaving Candy behind. Back home, I found Yash in the kitchen, frowning down at a large manila envelope.
“What is it?” I asked.
He handed it to me. “I am not in the habit of opening your personal correspondence,” he said, his voice notched with irritation.
I tore the flap, pulled out the photo that Carlo Leoni had taken of me and Ruthie on the dhow, the Arab boy tucked at our knees, all of us smiling, close to laughter, and in the corner in flowing cursive: Amo le mie due belle ragazze! Carlo.
“Who delivered this?” I asked.
“The pirate,” Yash said.
“You know him?” I asked.
“I know of him.” He bent to check the drip of the still, adjusted the coil.
“He’s not a pirate,” I said, “not really.”
“If he is not a pirate”—Yash straightened and looked at me—“then what is he?”
“A great photographer.” I held out the print. “See?” But he waved it away.
“Virtue is in the subject, not in the man who captures it.” He pulled out a can opener and punctured a tin of tomatoes.
“Did he say where he was going?” I asked.
“Sometimes it is better not to know,” Yash said, then reluctantly cast his eyes to the back porch. “He has asked for coffee.”
I hesitated a moment before rising. When I swung open the door, I jumped back like I had stepped on a snake. Carlo sat on the step, placidly smoking. He flipped his cigarette to the grass and stood to face me, the brow of his green scarf stained with sweat, his shirt unbuttoned down his chest, his camera hanging heavy and loose.
“Bella,” he said, “I knew you would come.”
I pressed my hand to my chest, tried to quiet the hammering. “I wanted to say thank-you for bringing the photo,” I said.
He reached for my fingers, held them at his lips, peered up at me. “You are like a madonna, you see. It is in the young boy’s eyes. I want it to be cherished.”
I felt a giggle coming on, heard Yash make a coughing noise behind me, and eased back my hand.
“I have an appointment,” Carlo said, looking around as though the yard stretched for miles. “I wonder if you might help me find my way.”
I remembered Candy and her portrait and then thought of the Volkswagen parked at the curb, the rare chance to talk with Carlo about his photographs. I wouldn’t be going far, I told myself, only inside the compound.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, and went in and grabbed my camera, ignoring the look of disapproval on Yash’s face. Carlo followed me to the car and opened my door, watched me slide in before walking slowly around, a diminutive swagger, and settling into the passenger seat. When I glanced at the dagger that rode his hip, his eyebrows leaped and settled. “An unarmed man is like a castrated bull, good only for slaughter,” he said, then laughed when I popped the clutch, killed the engine, and started it again. “Ah,” he said. “You drive like an American.”
I smoothed out in second gear and kept our speed at a steady ten miles per hour. “What’s going on out there?” I asked. “Anything new?”
Carlo struck a match. “There is nothing new. It is a story as old as the sands.” He waved the match in an extravagant gesture of extinguishment, inhaled deeply. “Israel has attacked Egypt and destroyed its air force. The Bedouin Militia has been called in to protect Aramco’s compounds from Arab malcontenti, but it will be over soon enough.” He considered me from the corner of his eye. “You Americans worry that in the face of your Zionist sympathies, the Saudis will banish you from the country.”
“I’m not worried,” I said. I hit third gear, took a left without slowing, fearing I would never get us started again if I stalled. Carlo let out a low laugh and pointed toward the rec center.
“We should stop for a swim,” he said casually, “to relax.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed in,” I said.
“Nonsense,” he said. “Who can refuse me?” He eyed my bare arms. “I can tell by the strength of your shoulders that you are a strong swimmer.”
“I’m learning,” I said. I drove even more slowly as we approached the center, pulling to the curb behind a pickup in hopes we wouldn’t be noticed. I couldn’t imagine what rumors Candy would spread if she spied me in Carlo’s company.
Carlo cocked his head and gazed at me, a cigarette between his teeth. “I have seen your photographs,” he said. “There is a spirit in them, a spark of genius.”
I felt my cheeks pink, the smile break out across my face before I could stop it. “I’ve still got a lot to learn,” I said.
He ran his tongue over his molars, flared his nostrils. “Let Carlo teach you.”
I stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel as though I might be torn away. “When?” I asked.
He measured the horizon. “The sun is right,” he said, “and now is always the right time.”
“What about your appointment?” I asked.
“It will wait,” he said. He gazed at me, his eyes half-lidded. “I could take you to my studio, show you how to use my darkroom. Mia casa è tua casa, sì? It is business between professionals.”
I held my breath, my head swirling with possibility and a chance to get back at Candy. I considered Carlo’s face, open now, as though he were allowing me to see all that I wanted—the noble breadth of his forehead, the chasteness of his intent, the way his eyes lifted when he smiled.
“You’ll have to drive,” I said. I swung open my door and went around to the passenger side, but Carlo remained in his seat. He pinched his cigarette, let out a slow curl of smoke, and squinted up at me.
“Tell me, bella,” he said. “Where is your husband? You know I would need his permission.”
I felt myself flush as though I were the one who had been caught in flagrant seduction. I held his gaze for a moment, then rummaged my purse for a scrap of paper, wrote a few sentences, and signed Mason’s name. “There,” I said.
Carlo considered the note. “You are crazy,” he said. “Sorrow for me, I value this in a woman.” He slid out, eyeing me as he passed, eased into the driver’s side, and tapped the car into gear. When we reached the gate, he stopped and presented the paper to Habib as though he himself were convinced of its authenticity. They exchanged a few sentences of Arabic, Carlo’s voice loud with good nature as he gestured my way and then at the note, until Habib stepped back and watched us pass. I craned around to see him peering after us as though he wasn’t quite sure what had happened.
We broke out onto the road in first, the transmission screaming, until Carlo bucked us into second, then third and fourth, the Volkswagen rattling with speed. He never slowed as we headed up the highway that would lead us north but dodged and darted, hunched and gesticulating. “Stupido! Idiota! Imbecille!” I turned my attention to the landscape flying by: low-lying hills, piles of stone, animals grazing on scrub—I might have believed myself back in Shawnee. I looked at Carlo, leaned over the wheel like Odysseus guiding his ship through the straits, wind furling his scarf, and felt my own hair tugging free. I held to the window frame, but he swayed with the car, loose and easy.
“I didn’t bring any water,” I said.
“Did you bring your camera?”
“It’s in back,” I said.
“Then we will survive.”
I looked toward the horizon, took a deep breath to settle my nerves. What am I doing? I thought. If the company caught me, I’d be on the next plane out, and Mason could lose everything he had worked for. But the farther we traveled from Abqaiq, the less worried I was, as though the desert itself might protect me, take me in. When low black shadows broke the sandy swales like a fleet of black ships, I pointed, and Carlo nodded.
“Bedu,” he said.
“Have you ever visited them?” I asked, searching for the tent with the single white stripe.
“Many times,” he said. “They are like family to me. In the beginning, we Italians lived here like Roma, like Gypsies, sì?” He gestured to the air. “We were divided into camps by race and nationality.”
“Segregated,” I said, and he nodded.
“Saudi Camp, Indian Camp, Italian Camp, all of us clustered around American Camp like beggar dogs.” His face took on real seriousness. “The king allowed the import of Italians on one condition: that our food and housing remain poorer than that of the Saudi laborers.”
“Not an easy trick,” I said.
He lifted his shoulders. “To the Americans, we were all of us coolies,” he said, and the corners of his eyes creased. “Yet they came to the Italian camp for our spaghetti and our wine. We had once fought as enemies, but now we celebrated each night as though we had ended another war, dancing until dawn.” He chuckled. “The single girls, how they swooned for me!”
I tried to imagine a younger Carlo. “Were you a pirate then?” I asked.
He clucked his tongue. “I was born a pirate,” he said.
I laughed, sucked my lips, tasted salt, told myself not to think about water. I reached for my camera, placed the lens at the edge of the open window, and adjusted the shutter. An acacia, a jut of rock, the common sky—nothing I could frame until a gazelle broke the plane, zigzagging before us like a rocket on springs. Three camels appeared in the distance and watched our approach with lazy curiosity. I snapped a shot as we tracked by.
“What do you see in the camels?” Carlo asked.
“I don’t know. Just that they are there, I guess.”
“That is no reason to waste film,” he said.
“Their shape,” I said, “their color.” I considered for a moment. “The way they stand like a three-dimensional triangle. A pyramid. They aren’t casting shadows, just the dark patches beneath their bellies, like little pools of oil.”
“Buono. I like how you learn,” he said, and I felt a spark of pleasure.
“Ruins?” I asked. “Is that what we’re looking for?”
He held out his hand. “It is all ruin,” he said, then motioned that I should pay attention. A series of wavelike dunes captured the light in an apricot pool. Each second, the division of sky, sun, and sand shifted, demanded that I adjust, open, allow a shadow, make it disappear. When I turned in my seat and focused on Carlo, he drew himself upright.
“I am piccolino,” he said, “a small man. It is up to you to capture my grandezza.” He gave me his profile, peering into the distance, then slowly turned his eyes on me, and I felt a jolt of expectation, as though something were about to be revealed.
“Am I a robber?” he asked roughly, and lifted his chin. “Perhaps.” He pinched his eyebrows, darkened his gaze. “A beggar? Never.” He creased his broad forehead. “Always remember that seeing is not knowing. You are piccola, but I will teach you to be big.” He relaxed, lit a cigarette. “There is a diver,” he said, “who works on the drilling platform to secure the pipes underwater, a fellow Italian from the coast of Amalfi. A big man with fists like this,” he said, and placed his own fists together. “As a boy, he worked with his kinsmen to haul the big boats to harbor with the strength of his bare hands.” Carlo paused, caught in a moment of wonder. “What a thing it must have been to pull a ship from the sea!”
“Like landing a leviathan,” I said, remembering Jonah’s whale.
“Yet he is afraid,” Carlo said with some pity, “of the smallest spider and must be rescued and calmed like una bambina.”
I looked out across the desert, empty as any ocean. “It’s strange,” I said. “I feel safer out here than I do inside the compound.”
“That is because you think you have somewhere to run,” he said, and winked. “Like Carlo, you are a rascal and live by your wits.”
I rolled my eyes, but the truth was that I liked being compared to Carlo, his sense of invention and adventure. I porpoised my hand through the current of air, thought about what I knew of Carlo’s life.
“Is it true,” I asked, “what they say about you?”
“That I’m a great photographer?” he asked, but I saw the amusement in his face. He tilted back his head, gave me a rapscallion smile. “I have captured the affection of an American beauty who is foolish enough to love me and keeps me clothed. I have my studio, my camera, my dagger. It is enough.”
“Do you ever get lonely living on the beach by yourself?”
“Who among us lives without loneliness?” he asked.
I thought of my nights without Mason, then opened my purse and took out the cigarettes, handed one to Carlo. “Do you know Abdullah al-Jahni?” I asked.
“I have known him since he was a boy,” Carlo said. “He used to come to my studio, curious and unafraid. We pretended great battles with our weapons.”
“I like him,” I said, “and his sister, Nadia.”
“Ah, I remember her.” Carlo smiled with the memory. “She took the veil so young. Maybe because of her father’s death, maybe because her face captured the hearts of too many men.” He grew more serious. “They never should have married her to that ruffian Alireza.”
“He’s rotten to the core,” I said.
“Alireza is a dangerous man,” Carlo agreed. “It is better that Nadia has returned to her family. She is safer there.”
“She wants a divorce,” I said. “Can you do that in Arabia?”
“Easier than in Italy,” he said. “We must plead our case to the pope himself, but here it takes little more than the speaking of the words ‘I divorce you’ three times. Still,” Carlo said, “a man of Alireza’s reputation would find it a great insult.”
“Abdullah told me that Alireza is going to take away her baby,” I said. “I don’t care what the law says. It’s not right.” I was surprised by the sharpness of my voice, the orphan’s grief flooding back. I thought for a moment that I should tell Carlo about the scam, that maybe he would help, but I turned my eyes back to the desert, held my tongue. “Nadia is teaching me to swim,” I said more quietly.
“Splendido,” Carlo said, his humor restored. “You and I, we will swim together.” He began singing what I thought must be some kind of opera, his voice rising and falling with the wind, and I felt the sadness blow away, laughing aloud with Carlo when his voice broke at the highest note. “An aria,” he said. “I am no Caruso, but I have the passion.” He looked at me. “Photography is like poetry, but poets we must also be.”
I smiled, laid back my head, closed my eyes, and let the wind cool me. I didn’t realize we were nearing Dhahran until Carlo began to gear down. I looked to where he pointed and saw a queue of official vehicles parked along the sandy shoulder of the road that led to the main gate.
“Hide the cameras,” he commanded. In the distance, I could see flames leaping, and then I heard the shrill call of the disaster whistle.
“Another explosion,” I said, but Carlo shook his head.
“No. It is something else.” We slowed as a Bedouin militiaman, bandoliers strapping his chest, separated himself from the cluster and waved us down. Carlo narrowed his eyes, took out the note I had written, and drew out his dagger, laid it alongside his leg, said, “Don’t speak a word, bella.” I gathered my scarf over my hair, pulled it across my face, tucked it at my throat as the man approached.
Carlo handed him the paper and gestured to the road, joking and offering cigarettes, but the man remained unsmiling as he bent to peer in at me, then walked back to confer with his fellows. Carlo’s voice grew more serious.
“Listen to me,” he said. “These are not local men. I have no sway with them. If they threaten to arrest us, you must act furious. Say that I am your driver, that your husband is an important Aramco executive, that he will be angry when he finds out your virtue has been questioned. It won’t matter that he can’t understand you.”
“I’m not afraid,” I said.
Carlo nodded to where the guards conferred. “If you don’t fear for yourself, then fear for me.”
We watched as the guard walked back to the car. I pressed my shoulders straight, readying myself to act their superior, someone who might make them pay. The man leaned into Carlo’s window, and I could smell his sour breath as he barked a few words. He glared at me, then dropped the paper into Carlo’s lap and stepped away. We crept forward until we had cleared the queue, and I heard Carlo let out a sharp sigh.
“Mio Madre,” he said. “You have taken years from my life, and the day is not yet over.”
“But it worked,” I said. “We fooled them.”
He looked at me sideways and allowed a grin. “If you are a good clown, they accept you as a clown.”
“What did he say is happening?” I leaned out my window and peered across the sand to the compound’s boundaries, struck again by how much like an island it was, a fenced oasis moated by sand.
“The protests have spread to Dhahran,” Carlo said, peering through the windshield. “These are university students. You have educated them well.”
“But why the compound?” I asked.
“Because of Aramco’s ties to Israel,” he said. “They want King Faisal to stand with his Arab kin and join the oil embargo.”
As we approached the turnoff leading to the main gate and guardhouse, I pulled out my camera. “Drive closer,” I said.
“Pazza,” he said. “I knew that you were a crazy woman.” He checked his rearview before steering us off the road and parking in the shaded lee of an ancient tamarisk. Above the wail of the siren, I could hear the pop and sizzle of small explosions. Maybe it was the adrenaline that allowed me not to think of the risks I was taking, or maybe it was Carlo’s earlier praise that made me bold, or maybe it was nothing more or less than my being that stubborn girl I had always been, acting first, willing to suffer the consequences later, but more than anything, what I wanted was to be where whatever was happening was happening.
I opened my door, whispered, “Come on.”
“Where?” Carlo asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Just follow me.”
“I am a pirate,” he hissed. “I have no need for a navigator.” But he trailed me anyway. We looked around before striking out across the sand, then hunkered our way along the fence that enclosed the compound, scrabbling forward against the pitch of rock and sand, the vacant desert on our left, on our right the bunkerlike buildings, the shouts of men, the slap of someone running down the street. Smoke twisted above us, settled like garland in the limbs of acacia. A hundred yards north of the administration building, the Dhahran hospital crowded the fence, three stories of shaded windows reflecting back the sun.
“There is nothing here,” Carlo whispered. “We should return before we are discovered.” I ignored him and pushed against the wire, hoping for give. How many fences had I climbed over, scooted beneath, wiggled through? But this one was different, several feet higher than my head, barbed at the top, chain link dense enough to keep out the jackals and svelte foxes.
“Wait,” Carlo said, and pulled me back. I peered ahead, saw a flurry of movement dusting the sand.
“It’s an animal,” I said.
“Yes,” Carlo said, “but what kind?” We bunched close, creeping forward until we could see where the fence had been cut and broken through. In the mesh of wire, a large red dog struggled, caught by a slender hind leg—someone’s Irish setter, bolting from the noise. She lifted her head, feathered tail wagging, and gave one light bark as we approached.
Carlo examined the breach in the fence, but I was focused on the dog, her long muzzle, deep chest, narrow hips, the blood that matted her haunch. When I knelt beside her, she licked my cheek and whined. The sharp wire had hooked her through the hock. I held her leg, feeling for a way to work the wire loose, but the pain made her jerk from my hands, whimper, and snap.
“Help me,” I said to Carlo. “It’s going to take us both.”
He shook his head. “Leave her,” he said. “To them, dogs are unclean. We are already risking too much.”
An explosive concussion split the air, and Carlo ducked as though the hospital might come crashing down on our heads. I thought about Linda, wondered if she had fled the compound, saw Carlo peer up, searching the windows as though he shared my thoughts. He drew his dagger, motioned to the cringing dog. “Kneel on her neck,” he said.
“Don’t kill her,” I said. I was remembering the dog in the ditch, my grandfather’s shovel, the chunk of metal against bone.
“Do as I say,” Carlo insisted, “before we lose more time.”
I stroked the dog’s sleek head and rested my knee against her neck. A strangled scream of terror broke from her throat as Carlo gripped her leg, made two shallow cuts, and pulled the wire free. When I sat back, she jumped up as though sprung from a box and bolted in a single leap, disappearing into the desert like a coppery wraith.
Carlo wiped his knife. “Now she will be eaten by hyenas,” he said.
“Better than dying here.” I stood, rested my hand against the mangled fence, looked back at Carlo. “Mason is going to kill me if he finds out about this,” I said.
“I believe he will have a fight on his hands,” Carlo said. He pulled back the wire, giving me clearer passage, then followed me through the gap.
We pressed ourselves against the hospital’s walls, freezing whenever we heard a voice, until we came into the clear near a corner of the administration building, its windows busted. In the parking lot, three fire-blasted sedans lay overturned and smoldering, releasing a tarry smoke. When I lifted my camera, Carlo touched my shoulder and pointed down the street toward the louder shouts and rumblings, the chaos of concentrated commotion. I moved in front of him, but he caught my arm. “Let me go first,” he said, and crept forward until we could see a handful of Arab youths pitching rocks and bottles, chanting their slogans. A clutch of Bedouin militiamen watched from a distance, their faces rouged by the glow of a storage shed that had been set aflame.
“Why aren’t the guards stopping them?” I whispered.
“Why would they?” Carlo said. “They are all Arabs and will not turn on each other if they have an enemy in common.” He knelt on one knee and focused on the rioters.
“But we’re not the enemy,” I said, “and they’re destroying the compound.”
“It is not their compound,” he said, “and you are their enemy’s friend.”
I peered past him to the shadowy faces of the militiamen, who stood at ease. The chief lit a cigarette, threw his match to the gutter, and rested against the hood of his Jeep. I edged ahead of Carlo, crouched behind a hedge of frangipani, its fulsome sweetness perfuming the air, and crept forward until I was within fifty feet of the guardsmen, ignoring Carlo behind me, his voice low and insistent, calling me back.
I rose against the trunk of a date palm, my camera at the ready. As intent as they were on the violence, I reasoned, they wouldn’t notice me. I adjusted my lens to take in the rioters, one with his arm cocked, ready to pitch a large rock, even as the leader of the militia calmly watched, on his face a look of pedestrian curiosity. I followed the arc of the stone, saw it hit a window of the Oil Exhibit building, the glass explode into a shower of fragmented light. I held my ground, capturing the smile that broke across the chief’s face as the shards spangled the street. The protestors turned, raised their arms in triumph, and I zoomed in on their faces, masked in the folds of their ghutras, took several quick shots. In that second, Carlo was at my elbow, and I saw the chief peering my way.
“Run, bella.” Carlo pushed me so hard that I stumbled forward before regaining my balance. I thought I could hear his feet hitting the ground behind me, or maybe it was the camera banging against my chest or my heart pounding in my ears, because when I looked back, I saw him still there, squared off with the militiamen, gesticulating wildly. His voice carried on the air, a hectoring mix of English, Arabic, and Italian even as the chief approached, his weapon at the ready. I cut through a lawn, dodged around parked cars, didn’t stop until I reached the hospital, where I flattened myself against a wall shadowed by palms.
How can I explain the strangeness of being caught in that limbo between the silent desert and the riotous calamity filling the streets? I hesitated another moment, but what could I do? I didn’t think that the rioters or militiamen would hurt me, but I knew that if caught with my camera, I would be turned over to the company, who would send me out and maybe Mason too. I told myself that Carlo could clown his way out of anything because I couldn’t bear to contemplate the other possibilities: that he could be beaten, jailed, shipped back to Eritrea because of me.
I stepped through the fence and followed its boundary to where Carlo had parked the Volkswagen in the shade of the tree. The car creaked when I opened the passenger door and slid in as though it, too, were protesting my presence. I peered toward the breach in the fence until I saw a shadow separate, break free. Carlo ran to the car, motioned me into the backseat, and took the wheel. “Stay down,” he commanded, and gunned us onto the road.
I crouched on the floorboard, my knees crammed to my chest. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“My studio,” he said.
I braced myself against the seat, felt the air cool my back, damp with sweat. I lifted my face so that he could hear me. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I said.
“They try to scare me, but they forget how big I am.” He growled a laugh. “They know that I have the protection of the emir.” He lit a cigarette, and I saw his eyes in the rearview lift. “We have lived to see another day, bella,” he said, “and now we have our story to tell.” He inhaled deeply and took up the aria where he had left off, filling the small car with his boisterous vibrato. Half an hour later, he slowed and turned right, and we bounced across the bermed road and railed a long path through the sand before pulling to a stop. I peered out from between the seats, saw a small building on the beach, and then Yousef’s taxi.
Carlo squinted, geared down. “Someone welcomes us home,” he said. He got out, and I heard him speaking in Arabic, Yousef answering, and then the passenger door swung open, and Carlo levered the seat. I clambered out, saw Yousef leaned against his Chevy, the brim of his hat shading his face.
“Howdy,” he said.
“Howdy,” I replied. I couldn’t imagine what he must have thought of me as I followed Carlo toward what looked like a hobo shack, the skull-and-crossbones flying above. The studio was more solid than I had expected, built of large automobile packing crates nailed tight against the winds that stung my ankles. I wasn’t sure who might be inside, but when Carlo swung open the planked door, I saw Linda Dalton in her nurse’s uniform, sitting on a narrow cot. Before I could begin to wonder what she was doing in Carlo’s studio, she arched her eyebrows.
“So,” she said, “imagine my surprise.”
I heard the hint of jealousy in her voice, looked from her to Carlo and back. “We were just taking pictures,” I said.
Linda’s mouth hitched. “I bet you were.”
“Really,” I said, and felt my face redden. “Nothing”—I grimaced—“nothing like that happened.”
Linda crossed her legs, tilted her head my way, ignoring Carlo. “I wouldn’t tell anyone,” she said. “You’ll ruin his reputation.”
Carlo cupped her face in his hands and kissed each of her cheeks. “You are safe,” he said, “and now I am happy.”
“I was just leaving to deliver X-rays to Abqaiq when the riot broke out.” Her eyes softened, and she looked up at Carlo. “It won’t kill anyone if they’re a little late.”
Carlo winked my way, then motioned me to the cot beside Linda, brought us each a warm Pepsi. The hut was surprisingly cool, filtered light coming in through two saw-cut windows bedizened with translucent shells, illuminating the prints tacked to the whitewashed walls.
“What a lucky man I am,” Carlo said, lifting his bottle, “to be in the company of such beautiful women.”
Linda offered me a cigarette. “Maybe it’s a good thing that Ruthie flew to Rome,” she said. “My neighbors marked their house that they were Muslim and ran off.”
I lowered my voice. “We sneaked in through the fence,” I said, “and took pictures.”
Linda’s eyes snapped once. “Are you crazy?” She turned to Carlo. “I thought you of all people would know better.”
Carlo stroked the point of his beard that lifted and settled like the back of a cat, and his tone grew more serious. “They took my camera.” He turned up his palms as though showing us how empty they were. “I will enter a plea with the emir, but I fear it is hopeless.”
I considered only a moment before pulling out my Nikon, still holding the film of the riot. “Until you get yours back,” I said.
He hesitated before shaking his head. “I cannot,” he said. “It is the extension of your very soul.”
“Oh, cut the crap, Carlo,” Linda said. “Just take the damn camera. Gin can buy another one in Khobar. You’re the one who doesn’t have the money.”
Carlo pouted at Linda, his eyes half-lidded. “You are beautiful, amore mio. How I adore you. You make me forget my pain.” He puffed his chest, held out his hand. “If not for you, I would be nothing but a poor pirate.”
Linda stood, slapped the wrinkles from her uniform, and jerked her chin toward the door. “Come on, Gin. I’ve got work to do.”
“Wait.” Carlo grasped her arm, turned her toward him. His gaze had sharpened. “Stay with Carlo awhile longer. I will show you my photographs.”
“Jesus, Carlo.” Linda snatched her arm away. “I’m not one of your little girlfriends.” She settled her shoulder, looked at him from the corner of her eyes. “You’re pathetic, I swear.”
“I am,” Carlo said, his eyes gone soft. “Tu sei la mia stella polare. I am always lost without you.”
I felt something give in Linda and knew just what it was. “I’ll meet you outside,” I said, and pulled the door closed behind me. I looked to the taxi, where Yousef thumbed back his hat. He met my eyes before shaking his head and sliding back into his nap.
I sat in the sand, rested back on my elbows, and watched the water, the thin lines of dhows graphing the horizon, heard the distant sounds of traffic along the highway. A jet, its contrail feathering across the blue dome of sky, reflected a spark of sun. I breathed in the air, tart as a penny, and it came to me that what I was feeling was a kind of solitary pleasure I hadn’t known since I was a girl. In that moment, I allowed myself to imagine that I could be like Carlo, bluff my way through the world, make myself into a pirate who could come and go freely, revel in the unfettered air. I was almost sorry when Linda appeared, carrying her sturdy nurse’s shoes and shushing through the hot sand in her white nylons, regal as a clipper ship. I rose reluctantly and followed her to the taxi. Yousef, roused from his stupor, waited for us to brush off our feet before closing our doors. He had deflated the oversize tires to give us more traction, but still we skittered and slewed.
“What about the Volkswagen?” I asked.
“Carlo will drive it back.” Linda bobby-pinned her white cap, furiously tucking the loose strands of hair, then shoved on her sunglasses. She smelled sweet and warm, like summer molasses. “I can’t believe you gave him your camera,” she said.
When I started to remind her that she was the one who had convinced him to take it, she waved her hand.
“I know, I know. He always does that to me.” She sucked on her cigarette. “For God’s sake, don’t tell Ruthie. She’ll never let me live it down.” She picked up the envelope of X-rays and groaned. “That’s just swell,” she said. “They’re melted.”
The road was less crowded than usual, Yousef able to stay in a straight line for miles at a time. Linda looked out her window. “I don’t think the rioters want to hurt anybody. They kept apologizing for the inconvenience. Really, they’re not very good at it.” She gave a quiet laugh. “My houseboy told them to leave me alone and lied that I had children inside. Guess I’ll have to keep him after all.” She laid back her head, let the smoke rise from her mouth. “I don’t know what it is about Carlo. Gets me every time.”
“It must not be money,” I said, “like the Moroccan.”
“The Moroccan was DOA,” she said. “Money doesn’t put the moxie in the man.” She turned her face to me. “But Carlo, he has moxie in spades, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said, “and he’s funny and brave and romantic and kind.”
Linda took off her dark glasses, her eyes wistful. “You don’t think I’m foolish for dating a pirate?”
“No,” I said. “Besides, he’s not a pirate. Not really.”
“Sometimes, I like to pretend that he is,” she said, then shook her head. “He flirts with all the women, makes everyone think he’s some kind of Casanova.” She lifted her shoulders. “But he’s just a force of nature.”
“It’s like his photography,” I said. “He loves whatever he sees, and whatever he sees loves him.”
“Yeah,” she said, and turned her eyes back to the road, the sharpness of her features easing, “that’s it exactly.”
It was nearing dusk by the time we reached Abqaiq. Yousef drove me all the way to my door before dropping Linda at the clinic. I stepped in and knew by the savory smells that Yash was making dinner. He hurried to usher me inside, his face pinched with worry, and I heard the local radio announcer’s excited Arabic.
“If you had told me what time you would return,” he said loudly, “I would have had your meal ready.”
“I don’t need a lecture, Yash.” I pulled off my shoes, not caring how much sand I dumped. “I get enough of those when Mason is home.”
He straightened, cut his eyes to the living room, and I saw Mason enter from the hallway, his hair still wet from the shower. He didn’t even acknowledge I was there, just sat down on the couch, lit a cigarette, and lifted his chin to Yash.
“What’s the latest?” he asked.
Yash snapped to attention. “Sahib, King Faisal has agreed to join the embargo. Aramco is forbidden to ship oil to the United States or Britain. All incoming flights are being diverted to Rome.” He moved with my shoes to the door, turned them upside down, shook them vigorously, and continued his report. “The Saudis are threatening to nationalize if the U.S. continues its support of Israel. The king assures Americans protection”—he kept his gaze on his task—“as long as they remain inside the compounds.”
Mason glared at me. “I need a drink,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen. When I heard ice dropping into a glass, I turned to Yash.
“What is he doing home?” I hissed.
“Mrs. Gin,” Yash said, and lifted his hands, “there is a war.”
I set my mouth. “You’re eating with us,” I said. “Don’t even bother to argue.”
I sat and waited with my hands in my lap until Mason came to the table. He hesitated when he saw the three place settings, then took his chair at the head. “Are we expecting company?”
“Just Yash,” I said, and arranged my napkin. “I don’t think it’s safe out there for him.”
Mason looked toward the closed doors of the kitchen, then back at me. “Where in the hell have you been all day?”
I slathered two rounds of dosa with ghee, laid one on his plate. “I was at the club,” I said, my heart racing, “playing cards with Candy.”
He settled his eyes on me. “You’ve never been any good at lying, Ginny Mae,” he said. “What I’m beginning to wonder is just how much you’re lying about.”
I opened my mouth, shut it again, afraid that I would dig myself deeper. Mason picked up his bread, set it down.
“Do you think I’m the one who makes up the rules around here? You can be mad at me all you want, but it doesn’t change a damn thing.” He leaned in. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble and pull me right in with you, and then where will we be? Back in that Oklahoma oil patch, that’s where.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t need you drawing attention right now. I’ve got an inside lead on the deal with Bodeen and Alireza, someone I think might listen to what I’ve got to say, and I don’t want you messing it up.”
I sat very still, like I had as a child when I believed I might make myself invisible, grateful when the kitchen doors swung open and Yash appeared, bearing a deep dish of steaming butter chicken. He hesitated for a moment until Mason motioned him forward. Yash never met our eyes as he took his place at the table, his carriage polite enough to demand that we be civil. We ate in silence for a few minutes until the sound of my own chewing was about to drive me mad.
“Yash,” I said, and he looked up, a little alarmed. I gave him an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you tell us more about India.”
He pressed his napkin to his mouth and cleared his throat. “I must say that this current situation has reminded me a bit of my own country’s history.”
I let the tension ease from my shoulders. Such an introduction could only mean a long oratory. I glanced at Mason, whose eyes were fixed on his food as though he couldn’t stand the sight of either one of us.
“The 1947 British partition of India,” Yash continued, “produced one of the largest human migrations ever recorded. A multitude of Muslims journeyed north to their new home of Pakistan, the Hindus and Sikhs south to their new India, and as they passed, they slew one another by the thousands.”
Mason’s eyes flicked up for a moment.
“My family had a private car and was in no danger, but I vividly remember the refugee trains. It was bedlam, the people tearing at one another to climb on board.” Yash paused, seemed to go more deeply into himself, his voice a little quieter. “Along the route of migration, a family of Muslims that had fallen behind the caravans huddled and wept. We slowed to allow a few goats to be herded from the road, and I peered into the faces of the dying old man and his wife, propped among their few belongings. He was nothing but bones, his only covering a scrap of dirty linen at his loins. His eyes, rolled to the heavens, terrified me, but when I pointed him out to my father, he said it would be better that they all died that way.” He lowered his eyes. “I suppose that like most people, he viewed those he had set himself against as animals. It is the only way we can justify our survival over their destruction.”
“Is that what Gandhi said?” I asked, but Yash shook his head.
“It is what experience teaches,” he said. “What Gandhi said was that the idea that the world’s religions must be separated was for him a denial of God.”
Mason considered Yash as though he were seeing him for the first time, then pushed back his plate. “What is your take on the riots?” he asked.
“A minor form of revolt.” Yash graciously took the cigarette Mason offered.
“You know what Martin Luther King said, don’t you?” Mason popped his lighter. “ ‘A riot is the language of the unheard.’ ”
Yash drew in a breath. “Truly, in the long history of occupation,” he said, “the Arab-American experience is extraordinary. No war has been waged, no genocide enacted, no peoples enslaved. The land has remained in the hands of the kingdom, as has the government and its affairs,” he said, “yet it remains a form of colonization.”
Mason nodded. “Corporate colonization.”
“And with colonization comes resistance,” Yash said. “One wonders if the Americans won’t regret their temperate regard for this country’s sovereignty. It is a point of great hubris, believing that you can control what you first do not conquer.”
“Nationalization would allow the Saudis to take control of the company.” Mason squinted at Yash. “Isn’t that what these riots are really about? The Arabs want us out, want to claim what’s theirs.”
“It is about all of it,” Yash said. “What matters in this case is that both the United States and Israel believe that they are exceptional, that they are God’s chosen people. In this way, they have yoked their destinies. Whoever rises up against one must rise up against the other, and that is the Saudi dilemma.”
“You don’t think we can bridge that divide?” Mason asked.
Yash tensed his lips. “The Bedu have a saying. ‘I against my brothers, I and my brothers against my cousins, I and my brothers and my cousins against the world.’ ” He stubbed his cigarette, glanced at his watch. “It is late,” he said, and rose with his cup. “I will finish my cleaning and be on my way.”
“Let me help.” I stood quickly and gathered our plates, refusing to look at Mason. I wasn’t sure what he would say to me once we were alone, but I knew I didn’t want to hear it. I followed Yash into the kitchen, helped him wash, dry, and put away the dishes, and for once, he didn’t protest. He stowed his apron, and I saw him to the door.
“Be careful,” I said.
“Shubh ratri,” he said quietly. “Sleep well, Mrs. Gin.” He balanced his bike. “I will wait to hear the lock.”
I closed the door and released the bolt, listened to the creak of his bicycle become more distant. I went back to the table, but Mason kept his eyes on his whiskey.
“I’m just going to bed,” I said. When he didn’t respond, I turned down the hallway, showered, and lay between the sheets, guilty and confused. The war seemed distant and impossible, secondary to my own little world of turmoil. Mason was always showing up when I least expected him, and it dawned on me that I could never really know where he was, what he was doing, when he might catch me by surprise.
I flipped my pillow, pressed my cheek to the cool side. I had never considered my marriage to Mason a mistake, but I was beginning to wonder—who might I have been if, instead of getting into Mason’s car that night, I had finished school, somehow gone to college, gotten a real job? Someone like Linda, single and free to make love to a pirate if I wanted.
I rolled to my side, twisted the sheet beneath my chin. “I could have been a stewardess for Pan Am,” I said aloud. I didn’t care whether Mason heard me, didn’t care whether he came to bed or not, I told myself. I didn’t care whether he ever came to bed again.