Yes. St Hiliaire had been part of the healing as Lizzie had actually accepted that there were some things she couldn’t understand and couldn’t control—and it was still OK. You know, Lizzie, if the creeping cancer doesn’t leap out and gobble you up and you do live to be a hundred and ten, you’ll—maybe—have this living routine licked. Maybe. Go to bed, Lizzie. You have to work tomorrow.
In her nighttime ritual, she stepped out onto the tiny balcony into the silver cold of winter in Geneva. It was after midnight so the lights had gone out on St Pierre but she knew that in the darkness there was still the bronze timelessness of its spire on the hill of the Old Town. The houses at the base of the Saleve had settled into the sleep of glowing embers and, perhaps, up on the Jura snow would be falling. It was real and beautiful, and Lizzie, the summertime girl and sun worshipper loved the crystalline Swiss winter too. Odd that she, who loved the coast and the sea so much had also discovered this love of snow—and, strangest of all, she had loved the wide expanses and the light of the desert.
She had spent time in the desert of Tunisia soon after she settled in Geneva. As her plane came in for landing, she had looked out over that other foreign desert landscape. The colours were so soft. The land was so hard. Creams. Pinks. Faded greens. All ice cream colours under a wash of dusty brown. In the town, the men were elegant reflections of the land with their gelibayas, the same clear colours with edgings of dust. It was the light. She found she loved the light of desert countries as much as loved the light of the ocean. Here, there was a luminosity that belied the dust that reminded her of coral reefs, the colours, the shapes, but most of all the toughness. There was the same endurance of coral that knew and understood about time taken to build and grow. The intricate shapes, the spirals and whorls of the underwater lattice could cut and hurt. It was beautiful but difficult to penetrate. It had conquered its environment and whole communities lived in it. But those who are not of the coral community, keep your distance. Rub your flesh on those seemingly fragile buttresses and you will bleed.
The conference had lasted five days. Bloody hell these bureaucrats could talk. And talk. And talk. And talk. Lots of Emperors in lots of new clothes and no honest child to yell, ‘Hey, that Emperor’s in the nuddy!’
She had seen nothing of that town and didn’t care because every spare minute was spent writing her story and her report so that when the conference was finished, so was the bulk of her work. A few hours to complete it, a few hours’ sleep and she was free to go where she wanted, when she wanted, if she wanted, as she wanted. She revelled in the sheer delight of it. Sure, Raoul Macin’s words reminded her, ‘Don’t forget that freedom has a price. Bitter herbs and unleavened bread. That is the price.’ Sobering words but then the joy of the lines, ’But also don’t forget,
It’s a price worth paying.’ Oh yes, it was worth paying. The herbs really had been bitter and there was still a sour after-taste at times, but it was definitely a price worth paying.
She took a bus to Hammamet, a tourist spot on the coast, planning to stay in a hotel a day or two and pamper herself with sun, sea, sky and solitude. Then she would decide what to do with rest of her days here. L’Hotel des Oranges was a study of white on white with white stone walls and white clear marble floors where the light from the sea shimmered in through the lattice and slipped along the hallways and corridors.
Her room looked out across a narrow garden to golden sand that sprouted slinky fringed shelters of the some colour. Then there was the sea. She let out a long sigh and felt her body begin to relax. Already she could feel that sense of total release that came when she was hot in the sun near the sea. Of all things, that was the cure for her when she was tense. The only thing that came close was walking in the wind along a coast with battering surf. But this, this sun and sea just melted her and let her mind and spirit drift free.
She went straight to the beach. Let the meltdown begin! For the next six hours, she did not have one thought. Instinct took her from sand to water, occasionally into the shade. It reminded her to slap on more lotion. Slip. Slop. Slap. The Aussie theme for summer. Slip on a shirt. Slop on some sunscreen. Slap on a hat. Thinking about it, there might be some justice if she had had skin cancer after all her youth spent as a lizard. Sometimes, cancer, I think you have a warped sense of humour.
When the sun finally dropped lazily over the rim of the world and the sand began its transition from gold to silver, she gathered herself and went back to her room. Oh, the bliss of a long wallow in the bathtub and the feel of icy green moisturiser soaking into her skin. She felt that tingle that was both hot and cold simultaneously, and her body remembered lots of summers gone.
By now, the moon was rising and creating a gleaming path from the deep, deep blue of the evening sky to the pearly sheen of the sand. She dressed and wandered down to the dining room. This was crowded, garish and not at all in tune with her mood but outside there was a terrace. That’s where she wanted to eat. The maître had led her to a little table inside. She had smiled—be honest—she had simpered and looked longingly at the terrace. He had preened and gone to look. Really, sometimes she understood why women did this routine so often—it actually worked.
Well, almost. He returned looking downcast and spreading his hands—in despair, if Lizzie were to believe his expression. All tables were taken. Unless…unless she were prepared to share with a gentleman who was also alone? He pointed to the table. It was right on the edge of the terrace, close to the flowering vines and with an uninterrupted view of the night. The gentleman had his back to her. Well…if the gentleman did not mind? A big smile. No, the gentleman had already agreed. Why not? She followed the maître out into the warm coolness of the terrace.
The gentleman went to stand.
‘No, No. Please don’t. Are you sure you don’t mind if I join you? I should much rather not have to eat in that noisy room.’
He smiled. ‘You are most welcome. It shall be my pleasure to dine with you.’
Oh, she knew that gentle courtesy. She had never seen him before but she knew that golden skin, pearl smile and those eyes that were the velvet of the evening. There was a brief moment of panic. Steady, Lizzie, steady. No play-acting now. This is grown up land remember. Keep it ordinary.
She did.
She kept the conversation light and made sure she asked most of the questions. It was a little disconcerting that he had a smile that seemed to know what she was doing. She guessed he was about mid-thirties, and he said he was not married. This was brought out very casually of course as he talked about his family and his life. He lived in France, but his brothers and their wives still lived in Tunisia. He was staying at the hotel for a couple of days only because he needed a respite between work and doing the rounds of the families. He was charming and a lively, comfortable companion, and when she finished her meal—it had been a long meal—she said goodnight and left him to have his cigarette. Once back in the room, she sat on the balcony and wondered were all Arabs charming or was she just destined to meet the charmers? Memories stirred. She went to bed.
Go to sleep, Lizzie. Just go to sleep.
The next morning, she walked along the beach, paddling at the water’s edge and letting her cotton wrap get wet and cling about her ankles. Then she saw a splendid sight. Huge, silken, glorious coloured parachutes were floating over the sea, attached by long ropes to speed boats and with harnesses to carry people into the air. Lizzie stood and watched. That must really be something, to fly under those domes of brilliance up, up, up into the sky. As she watched, a man was put into a harness; and immediately, the boat sped away, and he soared above them, out to sea. After a while, he was headed for the shore, the little boat turned and as it slowed, he dropped, between umbrellas, to land laughing on the sand. Other men raced to undo the straps and there he was, an ordinary mortal again.
She walked on slowly. Suddenly, the man was speaking to her, ‘Have a try! You’ll love it!’
‘No. No. I couldn’t.’
‘Why not? Come on. It’s easy. I’ll show you.’
Sheer horror took over. ‘No honestly. Thank you. It looks wonderful but no. No. Honestly. I couldn’t!’
Lizzie laughed half-heartedly and walked on as quickly as she could. But the question hung in the air like one of those comic strip blimps. Why not? Why not? Because she was a coward, that was why not. Because she was a middle-aged woman who just didn’t do that sort of thing, that’s why not. But really, why not? If the opportunity ever came again, she probably would not be middle-aged. She probably would be old. Or dead. Well, if she were dead the opportunity wouldn’t come again. Would it, smart-arse? Who are you convincing? Would you like to fly? Would you like to know how it feels to float like that up into the blueness? You silly bitch, of course you would. So have a go! You’re dead a long time, remember? Do you never want to know how it feels?
I’ll think about it.
She moved up onto the sand and become a lizard again. Even when she reached the mindless stage, a sense of excited possibility flittered just below consciousness. Several hours went by.
She rose, wrapped herself in filmy cotton again and began to wander back. The beach had become quite crowded. There were wind-surfers out and some were pulled up along the edge of the water, looking like single winged butterflies. There were also camels on the sand, and Lizzie realised how all the things she had ever read about their haughty expressions and vaguely simple eyes were all justifiable. They sat folded up and watched the tourists with just a touch of amazement as if such foolishness were quite beyond the comprehension of any sensible camel. Lizzie walked on and made a deal with herself. If they were still there and… if he actually asked her again… if she could do it right away, without waiting…
They were. He did. She could. O-O-Oh shit!
The beach was much more crowed now so she would have to land between umbrellas, windsurfer sails and camels. Something could go wrong. She could end up like a piece of flubber impaled on a gaudy swizzle stick or trampled to death under the irate feet of some dumb outraged dromedary. She had never done this sort of thing before. She didn’t know how to do it—and she would bloody well never do it again! Even if she lived, she would never do it again—and she realised it was highly unlikely that she would live. And she had just remembered, she was afraid of heights, hated heights. She was always scared of heights. And you couldn’t fly without going up high. Oh shit. Why she was doing this? Just because for a couple of insane seconds it had seemed a good idea. That would be her epitaph. She could see it engraved on a cross of gaily-striped camel bone. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’
Her orange cotton wrap was now in a pile on the sand. This man—was she kidding herself that she didn’t notice that he was gorgeous? Was she just another old darling being conned by a gorgeous young salesman? This man was buckling her into a harness. He had taken off her sunglasses, put them on himself and was rabbiting on about her beautiful eyes. A likely story, sonny. Stop carrying on and tell me what to do!
What are you doing? You are running me across the sand to that deflated parachute. You are grabbing hooks and planning to connect me. No way! Just wait a bloody minute, Mate! What do I do? What do I do? What do I bloody do?
Oh shit, I’m hooked. Literally, I’m hooked. What are you saying? Relax? You bloody fool—how can I relax when—Oh shit! I’m going! That boat is moving. I’m going. What do I bloody do? Pull down with my right hand? Now? All right, don’t yell. Not now. When you whistle? What do you mean? When you whistle? When I’m coming in? Did you say…Oh shit, I’m going out to sea. Over the sea. My legs are dangling uselessly. I bet that’s not a pretty sight. What do I do now?
Well, apparently nothing. If you are going to fall and smash yourself senseless from this great height then so be it! There is absolutely nothing you can do about it now. You are up here, and this parachute seems to be OK, and that tiny little boat down there is bouncing around and having fun so… So stop bleating to no one in particular and enjoy yourself. You are flying. Under this wisp of wonderful colour you are flying. With no sound, no weight and no responsibility, you are flying. Bloody, bloody, this is bloody marvellous. If I look up, the world is shimmering, swishing silk. If I look down, I can see right through the sea. I love it. I love it. Hey, Mum, if you’re there, Gwennie, I’m flying. I’m flying. Hey, Nanna. Hey, doc, I’m flying. You said I’d be dead but I’m flying. Up you, doc. We’ve done a wonderful great sweep, and now we are going back to the shore. I don’t want to go down there again. I like it up here. But I can see that we are heading back in again, and that little bouncy boat is going to slow down, and I’ll just drift lazily back to earth.
Lazily back to…Oh shit! What did he say about pulling down with my right hand? When he whistled? What if I can’t hear him? There are all those umbrellas, surfers and camels. Listen, Lizzie, listen. There he is, down there and getting closer by the second. The boat has turned, and you are going down. Excuse me, people, but going down rather too quickly? Listen. Listen. He’s whistling. Pull the rope, stupid, pull the bloody rope. He’s smiling. He has his arms open wide. He has you. You’re down. He has you.
Excuse me, sir, but why do you still have your arms around me? I’m down. Thank you for telling me again that I have beautiful eyes but although it was wonderful, no, I don’t want to do it again. Now, don’t look hurt. Just help me out of this harness; I’ll thank you and be on my way. No thank you, sir, I don’t want to have dinner with you tonight. What would your mother say? Thank you for my glasses and my wrap but most of all, thank you, thank you for helping me to fly. Yes. I did love it. I truly did. Now I’m going to collapse in a little middle-aged heap on the sand and feel elated.
Lunch was forgotten. She sat and dreamed again of the flight and she felt glad. The gladness continued with the golden day.
That night, as she entered the dining room, the maître approached with a definite “big tip” smile. ‘The gentleman has asked that you join him at his table again.’
Very nice of the gentleman. Yes, damn it, it was nice of the gentleman.
She smiled as she walked out and greeted him. He stubbed his cigarette and thanked the maître who was helping her into her chair. The meal was wonderful again. It was delicately spiced meat in rich sauce, frothy rice and sweet ripe fruit to follow. He ordered a local wine which she accepted out of courtesy only to find it was delicious.
‘You do need to know which one to pick,’ he smiled.
It was clear he had realised her apprehension. A bright lad, this one, Lizzie. You don’t seem to fool him too much.
This time, the conversation focussed more on Lizzie. She was aware that he was drawing her out about herself—not about the facts of Lizzie—more about the sense and idea of Lizzie. She enjoyed really talking to someone again. It was good that she could enjoy this space and not have any ongoing obligation to get to know one another or make more than superficial stranger style judgements. She was safely flirting with a memory. As she finally rose to leave, he said, ‘Will you join me for a drink in the garden tomorrow? And then come dancing with me?’
She was not in any doubt. ‘Perhaps,’ she said.
He looked at her for a moment. ‘You mean “no”, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘That would have been a more honest response. I prefer it to waiting in uncertainty.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She could feel the tears of a long time ago. ‘I’m sorry I said “perhaps”. I’m sorry.’ She walked quickly along the moon-washed sibilant corridors, sat on the balcony and cried.
Early next morning, she walked out into the dusty road, saw a tattered sign, entered a disorganised office and booked herself to go four-wheel driving south into the desert for three days. After another full day on the beach, she ordered room-service and ate on her balcony watching the night peak until as it slowly faded, she packed a small bag and padded down to the front steps of the hotel to wait for dawn and the pick-up vehicle.
She sat with her knees drawn up, elbows on them and her chin on her hands. Eventually, she saw two white eyes approaching through the gloom and she blinked as they stopped in a small spray of the grit on the drive and a bulky male figure left the driver’s seat and greeted her in French. Having checked that she was his passenger, he tossed her pack up onto the roof, secured it with a rope and then looked down at her. She had a feeling he could have tossed her there too, and she scrambled hurriedly into the back seat before the thought fathered his deed. She “Bonjour-ed” all round and then was immediately lost in streams of what she knew was French but which was extremely difficult to follow. She came to know that it was Arabic French, Senegalese French and German French. Her still new Aussie French from Geneva just did not cope.
At the first stop, she realised the guide spoke either Arabic or French. This was going to be great. She wouldn’t even get to know where to find the toilets! Their first stop was, in fact, a toilet stop. It seemed that already one of the passengers was going to need a few of these. They were travelling in a convoy of eight Land Rovers, each with its driver cum guide and seven passengers. Lizzie had left her sunglasses in the side pocket of her pack and decided that while everyone was milling around, she would climb up to the roof and get them. She edged the rope out of the way while balanced on a narrow metal loop protruding from the back. The rope was almost free when she realised her bulky guide was yelling at her. It was obvious he wanted to know what the hell she was doing and just as obvious that the quickest response would be to grab the sunglasses and show him.
However, it seemed that Mr Bulky was not used to being ignored. She smiled and continued. He continued looking quite pissed off until she finished what she was doing, replaced the rope and jumped down waving the glasses. He towered over her and let it be known that he was not happy. She smiled and shrugged again. Another question. Another shrug. So, she was simple minded.
Tough luck, Mr Bulky.
But now he was smiling. He called to one of the other guides and spoke to him authoritatively. The younger man (Oh hell, another Omar Sharif, she groaned silently.) said, ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Yes,’ she sighed in relief, ‘Please explain that I wasn’t being rude but I didn’t understand what this man was saying. I have a little French but not much.’
A rapid conversation took place between the two men. The younger man said, ‘It is OK. El Shef says you will travel sometimes with him and sometimes with me. My name is Abdul. You are Mrs…?’
‘My name is Lizzie. That’s great. Thanks a lot.’
El Shef seemed to be waiting for their exchange to finish. Abdul spoke to him. El Shef grinned and spoke again. This time, Abdul grinned, spread his hands and brought them together again with his eyes to heaven as if praying. Both men laughed. Now what was all that about? Lizzie wondered.
El Shef spoke sharply, and they all climbed back into the vehicles. The land they drove through was flat and dry and more gritty than sandy, at first everything coated in fine grey. Lizzie was disappointed to see the dullness of scraggly trees and gnarled shrubs that clawed into the earth so that she imagined their roots gouging their way to moisture. But after an hour or more, this landscape faded and merged into the lightness of the desert that she had imagined. It was getting hotter. The other passengers grew more and more quiet. Lizzie was in the row behind the driver now, next to the window, and she was revelling in the heat and the silence as one after another the passengers dropped into a doze.
She watched the world as it began to glimmer and all the edges blurred. In the rear view mirror, Abdul caught her eye and returned her smile. Without a word, his eyes took in the surrounds and asked her a question. She nodded. Yes, she loved it, all that emptiness and sheen.
They stopped for lunch at a small wayside shelter that offered shade, rough benches and tables and warm, thick flat bread, rice and the rich stews she had come to expect. There was also sweet juicy watermelon which she ate and felt the juice dripping down her chin as she bent over to avoid getting it on her clothes. She found she was laughing for sheer joy at the memories as she slurped and gobbled like a kid at a picnic. This was pretty good.
Around her, people were getting to know each other. There were a few family groups but most people were travelling in twos. There was one group of young Germans who showed no signs of wanting to know anyone else, but most people were chatting to others. She seemed to be the only solo and privately blessed her limited understanding of language. At least this way she could get away with minimal social chitchat and would not feel bound to talk to lots of people.
El Shef sat with her during the meal and plied her with food. She guessed he felt some responsibility for making sure she was not feeling neglected. At the end of the meal, he excused himself with a smile and called to the other guides who joined him around the lead vehicle. Mr Bulky (now El Shef) might run a tight ship, but it seemed that he also had some humour because there was a general ripple of laughter for something he said. Abdul looked back at her and waved. That was nice, Lizzie thought.
She sat for a while longer enjoying the heaviness of the heat on her skin. She could feel it all around her. When she moved her hand, it was as if she parted the air and it closed again after the passing. She loved being warm, loved it. Even though she enjoyed winter in Geneva with the ice and the snow of the nearby mountains, she loved it because she was always warm in the coldness. Warm in her woollen coat. Warm in shops, chalets or buses. Warm from skiing, skating or walking. She loved being warm. Hated the mourning of being cold. Mum had been like that too. Remember thinking of Mum and the grave? Remember knowing Gwennie would hate being cold in the earth? For heaven’s sake, Lizzie, remember something else! Remember the romance that was Gwennie. As Mum, she may never have left Australia but in her heart she’d had romantic adventures all over the world. She had come as near as anyone could to making dying an interesting episode. Remember the romance of Gwennie because that was Gwennie’s reality. Gwennie would be totally pissed off to think that her girl wasted time with regrets.
Most people were heading back to the cars. Lizzie stretched, and the warmth played around her. She headed back to her seat and smiled to Abdul as he was herding his group aboard. But there was another passenger in the spot where she had been—a rather disgruntled passenger. Abdul said, ‘You will take the front seat, Miss Lizzie.’
‘But…’ she looked at the other passengers.
‘You will take the front seat, Miss Lizzie. El Shef has decided.’
There seemed no point in prolonging the discussion and, if she were honest, she would like to travel in the front. After all, she was the only one who stayed awake. Why not? Good on yer, El Shef. He probably thought that would keep her happy, and it would be easier for Abdul to switch from French or German to English for her.
All afternoon they travelled through stark barren landscapes. The light drifted with them in the shimmering coppery gold. Nothing soft about this land. They were not yet into “Lawrence of Arabia” country. This was harsh in its dryness, gleaming metallic in its colour. Once or twice, they passed what looked like military outposts and she could sense why men would fight and war in such landscapes. Bullshit, Lizzie, men fight and war in any landscape, in any suburb. True.
Abdul was talking to her. They would spend the night in underground caves. Because there was no shelter to be found above ground, some of the desert people dug out homes below it. They created whole complexes of dwellings and communities. Lizzie wondered if this were true or just a yarn for the tourists. Abdul must have seen her scepticism because he grinned (it is not fair that men can be so beautiful) and assured her it was true and that she would be comfortable.
They drove for a long time. The heat began to pale slightly and the light shifted subtly as a diluted coolness crept into it. Passengers began to stir. The road, which was little more than a track, began to rise and fall as they moved away from the “it-must-be-the-end-of-the-world” flatness. Eventually, after a short climb, the convoy pulled up. Everyone crawled out of the cars, stretching and yawning and straggling after the guides to the top of a rise on one side of the road to come upon a lunarscape. This was a valley of starkness. The sandy land was lifeless with shadows lurking around rocks and gaping holes.
Abdul said, ‘Do you recognise it?’
‘Recognise it? I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘I bet you have,’ he grinned.
He mentioned a film. Yes, she had seen that film. Did she remember the opening sequences of a family living on a desert planet? Yes. She remembered that sequence. (Funny; today’s kids saw desert planets rather than desert islands). It was filmed here? Yes. Did they change it or “create it”? No, they just filmed here.
‘So Hollywood tells us that we are not of this world. We are like creatures from outer space? This is how the Americans see us, Arabs.’
An interesting political statement, my friend, Abdul. And not unconscious either.
They drove off for about half an hour until again the convoy stopped and passengers alighted and climbed another rise. Now they were looking down at a valley that was green with grass and trees such as they had not seen all day. Some movement caught Lizzie’s eye and almost simultaneously, she heard bleating and saw a goat-like scraggle that never quite becomes a flock or herd. This was such a place of peace that Lizzie couldn’t imagine them needing protection within it as only a bloody stupid goat would leave this lushness for the desert all around it.
She noticed a child sitting perched on a rock that probably gave him a good overview of what were obviously his charges. He sat still and seemed unaware of the small crowd peering over the rim of his world until suddenly, he sprang took a flying leap down from his perch and started running. Lizzie was almost shocked by the suddenness. She saw he was following a faint path and saw that on the other end of the path, a man was swinging down into the valley. She saw the child reach him and saw the man catch the child as he ran and swing him high before a quick hug and the child had attached himself to the man’s hip.
Abdul was beside Lizzie. He too had watched the little scene. ‘Families are families,’ he said. Lizzie understood the point he was making but part of her wanted to cry out, ‘That’s what you think!’ Part of her wanted to scream, ‘That’s bullshit. That’s Hollywood. Don’t idealise the world. Families are not all about loving. Families are not all about happy children and caring parents who stay with them forever. I remember!’ But she didn’t cry out at Abdul. She didn’t swear or scream. Time was—but not now.
As they walked down the hill, Abdul said, ‘We shall be soon at the caves. El Shef suggests you wait until last when rooms are being allocated. It will be better so. The Germans will be first and then the French. But before then, you will see the home of one family.’
They really were caves. There was a central open sort of courtyard about twelve or fifteen feet below ground level. Several rooms went off from the courtyard. The rooms were packed with a surprising amount of furniture and she guessed this was either the cause or the effect of being chosen for visitors to see. She had an uncomfortable feeling of voyeurism, of prying into the intimacy of a family as she remembered prospective buyers walking through her house. She moved quickly back to the open space in the centre. A woman was sitting on a small mat and peeling vegetables. She was thick set with hands that were age and work roughened and she wore the clothes of a Berber. The fabric was woven of blues and scarlet and held with a pin that was a twist of silver. But not shiny, glittery silver. It was a silver of the earth with a solid glow that reminded Lizzie of pewter. The woman’s hair seemed long and pulled back under her scarf.
Lizzie stood and watched, and the woman looked up, and Lizzie realised she was expecting to be photographed. After all, this was a tourist group. As the head bent again over her work and the knife jabbed and swirled around the vegetables, Lizzie had a quick image of Nanna. The hands. The hair. The doing what it takes to survive. The sense of how she would gleefully mock them later to her family and friends. Lizzie did not use her camera but as others came out from the rooms, many of them did.
Later, she realised she did not have even one photo of Nanna. Nanna would have peeled vegetables for tourists, if it had helped Gwennie or Lizzie. OK, Abdul, I’m glad I didn’t snarl at you. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there are more similarities about families than I admitted.
By this time, they were all tired and looking forward to stopping for the night. They were in a whole complex of caves—an underground maze that would blow the minds of accommodation star-givers. One star, five stars. How would they rate such a place? Lizzie could get no sense of layout as she waited in a small space that had tunnels and passages running off in several directions. This space had been white washed but the passages were gloomy with the patina of age on dark golden crumbly walls and floors.
She waited as first the Germans, then the French and then an Arabic couple were allocated rooms. She could understand them doing the larger groups first but she was tired now and wondered what sort of bed would be left at the end of line for the woman travelling alone.
Finally, the crowd cleared and El Shef came to her, picked up her pack and led the way. They passed several large spaces with beds lined up close together. Oh no! Dormitory style. With a crowd of strangers. I’ll probably be left with the bed that no one wants and have to smile dumbly at a herd of people I don’t want to know and there is always someone who snores and someone who sniffs. What the hell am I doing here? And, excuse me, El Shef, but where are we going?
Out to a space of a hundred stars. El Shef, I love you.
He took her past the crowded rooms to a tiny courtyard at least thirty feet below the surface where there was a scraggly tree—bloody hell, it is a gum tree!—stretching up to the evening sky that was coming alive with stars. Up a scrambly, rocky set of rough-hewn steps. Into her own little space. She loved it. The whole area had been white washed so that it hugged the last remaining light. There was a wide shelf cut out along one wall and a thin mattress with two crisp looking white sheets. It was all white on white again, and she would look up through the peasant-lace branches to the night sky. She loved it. El Shef, you’re a wonderful man, and I hope you have many children, wives, camels, goats and four-wheeled trucks to comfort you in your old age. She smiled her thanks. He smiled back. He didn’t move. He stayed firmly inside the opening of the little cave, which was definitely “littler” with him in it.
Oh-oh, Lizzie. You don’t suppose…?
Don’t sit down. Say thank you. Firmly. Look towards the open area. He is still not moving. Thank you. How firm did she have to sound? Well, there is nothing else for it but to…look wan, flutter, sigh, look weak and exhausted, look longingly at the bed—No! Don’t look longingly at the bed! And do not make eye contact! Start fussing with your pack and look up as though surprised he is still there. That’s it. Attagirl. Goodbye, El Shef. Goodbye, El Shef. Goodbye El Shef!! Off you go. Thank you!
Now watch your step, Lizzie. Or are you kidding yourself? You’re probably kidding yourself. He’s just being nice. This is a wonderful bonus compared to crowded rooms so just be grateful and don’t let your imagination run away with you. Do not, repeat, do not develop into one of those aging women who think every man who is pleasant to them is actually lusting after their cellulosed bodies.
She took the two steps to the door of “her” cave and stretched luxuriously, watching her hands reach up and up to the sky. She felt she could scratch up stars with her long fingernails. She always kept her nails long—memories of Nanna. Not that Nanna had long nails. Nanna had working nails. But when Lizzie was growing up and could see for herself that while her eyes were like Gwennie’s the rest of her just did not have the specialness of Gwennie, Nanna could say, ‘You’re no beauty, my darling girl, but you have lovely eyes and nails. You can do or be anything you decide to be in the whole world. Just set your mind to do it or be it.’ So the only make-up Lizzie wore was mascara and nail polish.
Now she dropped her hands and wrapped herself about herself for the sheer pleasure of the night, the stars and the gum-tree here in the middle of a desert. Time to change. Get rid of the dust. Eat. Shit, she was hungry, and she had to find her way back through the labyrinth to where dinner would be.
Now there’s a challenge worthy of Nanna herself.
Eventually, Lizzie found her way. She came to another subterranean courtyard and an opening off it, which went to a room set with tables. Everyone else seemed to be in there, seated already. Ugh! She did hate to join a crowd of strangers for meals. Then Abdul was at her side, smiling. ‘Lizzie, there is a special place for you—it is too hot in there with all those people. Sit here.’
He pointed to an adjoining, tiny courtyard where a small table was set for one under those glorious stars, and the air was caressing the darkness.
Joy. Abdul, you are the Prince of guides. That’s exactly what I would like. I shall follow you anywhere.
Lizzie moved to the table. It was simply made of rough wood, and there was a wooden chair. At the place set at the table was what looked like a parcel of dried grass or straw which she supposed must be a local way of cooking or something so she sat and began to pick at it, tentatively.
Abdul grinned. ‘Lizzie, you are a special guest. You must sit tall at table. This is a cushion. You should sit on it—not eat it.’
Oops! Foreign lady makes a fool of herself. Quickly. Quickly. Cushion on chair. Bum on cushion. Foolish smile on face. Now, foreign lady is ready. Could she eat, please?
She could. She did. And it was good. Of course, she felt a little conspicuous perched up on her cushion while Abdul talked to her and a buxom, motherly looking woman brought in the expected warm bread and hot brown stew. Now there is a stupid expression: “motherly-looking”. What the hell does that mean? What makes one woman look motherly and another not? Big breasts? A certain sort of smile? A tiredness around the eyes? A sense of irritability? A look of desperation? Bruises? A cut lip?
Enough. Enough now.
Lizzie sat in a cool white cotton dress, ate her dinner and delighted in the feel of her skin, the light from the stars, the warmth of the bread and the taste of hot brown stew. As the other diners straggled out, there were envious and curious looks. Abdul chatted easily. Lizzie relaxed. Life was good. El Shef came to bid her goodnight. Abdul interpreted, ‘El Shef said you’re probably tired. Rest well tonight. Tomorrow night will be special.’ Lizzie smiled her thanks. El Shef looked almost smug. She must have been mistaken. This was just nice and efficient.
Mr Bulky is making sure the customer is satisfied.
Er… maybe you could have chosen another expression other than “satisfied”, Miss Smart Arse who thinks she is irresistible. Go to bed, woman.
The next day was magical as they entered the desert of fantasies. Golden dunes that danced to the rhythm of the breath of soft breezes. Golden dunes that held hands with the distant sky in a wedding of blue and captured, rolling, swelling sunlight. At one stop, she wandered a little way and sat with her back to the group. It was like being at sea. The forever-ness of it all enveloped her and carried her into it. She was sitting in colour and light as if they were all that was—just colour and light
Back into the vehicles.
And then, the camels. Lizzie had not actually realised that this was part of the day’s plan. But there they were, lots and lots of camels sitting folded on the sand, chewing and blinking eyes that were incredibly long-lashed like cartoon drawings of arrogant seductive, simpering females. Everyone seemed to be choosing a camel.
How the hell does one know how to choose a camel? Presumably, one does what everyone else is doing—just make a dive, take the reins and scramble on whichever camel is vacant. Here goes nothing!
‘Lizzie.’ It was Abdul and El Shef. Both smiling.
Look guys, I am feeling just a little strained about this part of the deal. Don’t give me any grief. I’ll do it. I’ll do it. Just give me a minute.
‘Lizzie, you must not ride one of those camels.’
Now, just a minute. I might decide I don’t want to ride a camel but that is my decision, boys. I’ll decide. You don’t tell me I can’t just because I think I don’t want to ride one.
‘Lizzie. Come.’
I suppose that gorgeous smile means the same as please? Where are we going? Oh-ho. There is another camel over there all by itself. What is wrong with this camel? Yes, it is a beautiful looking creature—as camels go. It is almost white with long thick hair or fur or whatever you call it and, yes, it is wearing a beautiful saddle or seat or whatever you call it. Yes, thank you. I’m delighted to ride this camel. Thank you.
Abdul, what are you doing now? What is that long piece of cloth you are folding? Is it some intricate way of gagging prisoners? You want me to wear it? It is not a gag. It is for my hair. Of course, I knew that, I think. Wrap it around my hair and then pull it across my face like a veil. Of course. Now my hair and my face are protected. Thank you Abdul. Yes, now I shall get into the saddle or seat or whatever you call it. There is just one thing. I feel like a bit of dork sitting here in my old purple sneakers (I must get rid of these sneakers) and my old jeans and daggy T-shirt with my head elegantly swathed in this fine cloth. Still, I don’t suppose it matters. As long as I can stay on this bloody camel. Which is now feeling quite insecure underneath me. What is that man doing? Abdul, where have you gone? El Shef, where are you? Everyone else is sitting on a camel—minus veil—everyone seems to be looking this way. No, they are not looking here anymore. There is quite of lot of squealing from all those other people because their camels are unfolding and it is not exactly looking elegant. Maybe it is not too late to change my mind.
Maybe it is too late. Now that they are all standing quietly, my steed seems to think he should do something to attract attention. He is lurching forward. He is lurching backwards. Now forwards again. He is straightening up and up and up and up. How come I got the biggest bloody camel? It is not as though I am given to exaggeration. This really is the most ginormous camel in the whole desert. I am sitting miles above the level of everyone else. I have survived the standing up bit. My nails are now permanently embedded into leather and my teeth may never unlock again but I am still here. And here are you, Abdul, on one side of me. And here are you, El Shef, on the other side And we are leading this caravan are we? Fine. Nanna, is this what you had in mind? Did you ever envisage your darling girl sitting on a white camel looking quite ridiculous between two dashing men and sashaying her way across a storybook desert? If you did, you could have given me a hint.
After a couple of hours, they left the camels and loaded back into vehicles. Everyone was tired. It was the end of the afternoon and the heat now had a hard edge to it. There was little conversation and the few exchanges sounded sharp, spiky and were quickly cut off.
Lizzie was relieved when, once again, most people dozed and the only noise was of the wheels on the looseness of the track. Abdul glanced at her, then at the other passengers, back again and grinned what was almost a grimace. She guessed that being a tour guide would not always be the fun-filled party of the brochures. They travelled as quickly as the surface and roads would allow. Abdul seemed anxious to reach the evening destination. All the vehicles seemed to sense each other’s haste just as horses (and probably camels) do at the end of a ride. Gradually, the blaze and glare of the sun became diluted. It was not a softening, more a being overtaken by the night and darkness. This twilight was more steely than silver. And the heat remained.
When they finally arrived it was at a low building made of stone that seemed taken straight from the earth around it and piled and shaped without altering at all its colour or substance. At first, it seemed isolated in the emptiness of the now greying desert. Then, as they came around to the other side, there was lush green. They were on the edge of a small oasis—just some trees with green beneath them straggling and bending as if they had grown too quickly or drunk too deeply for fear of some encroaching enemy. People piled out of the vehicles complaining of being hot and tired and thirsty. Where were the bags? Where were the rooms? But mostly, where were the showers?
Abdul and El Shef, is there any chance that I could rate special treatment again? I shall be your slave for life. Whatever I have will be yours. Just keep me away from these irritable strangers.
As people jostled with luggage and made their way through the arched door, there was a quietness. Even hot and tired, perhaps because they were hot and tired, there was an awareness of stepping into another world. They were in an open space of coolness and freshness where a large pool of turquoise was surrounded by shadowed alcoves with large stones that did not shine but which glowed with the matt finish of soft chalky powder. It was a place that reached out to shush the whining and the bustle. Slowly, shoulders relaxed, voices calmed, people sat on the floor on their bags, waited and remembered they were on holiday, remembered they had wanted an adventure. Slowly, smiles reappeared. With a sense of timing, that was obviously the result of experience, the guides let them sit awhile, then, after drinks had appeared on metal trays, rooms were allocated. It was just as well the moods had been broken because the rooms were not dormitories—most had three or four beds only and there were only two showers for the whole group. Queuing was inevitable but now people just shrugged and accepted the wait.
Lizzie waited again while the others moved off. ‘Lizzie. Come.’
Abdul, I do wish you would occasionally not speak in orders but if you have something special for me I shall forgive anything. Anything. You do. Abdul, this room has only one bed and it is a big luxurious looking bed and I am the only person in here. Abdul, I love you. There is a stone alcove. Fine. Fine? I take that back. Not fine but wonderful, heavenly, miraculous. It has a shower. It is all mine. Bliss is a trickle of water all to yourself without other people’s grey suds at your feet and without other people panting outside a grimy curtain. Thank you, Abdul, thank you, El Shef who is standing behind you looking pleased. You are both wonderful.
As the door closed, she realised she could still hear their voices. Looking up she saw that the top one third of the wall was of stone latticework. They were in the room next door and probably also had a private shower. They deserved it, those wonderful kind men. Well, Abdul was leaving. She hoped he had a decent room. She stepped out of her clothes, turned the lever that was a tap and stood under the water which wasn’t hot but because of the heat it was not cold. It just wasn’t hot. She felt it slide down over her hair and her face and neck and down over her body. There was no force in it, just a gentle slithering that rinsed away the dust and fine grained sand.
Despite the veil, there was sand even in her hair. The water made its way slowly. She spiralled slowly so that it curved its way about her, slipping in and out of the hollows and rounds of her. She twisted and twirled in its flow. She cupped her hands and caught the soft stream until it welled up, over her arms and down her breasts. Her hair clung to her, glistening in the wetness. Her eyes closed, and she was only sensation, only surface. Then she reached for the soap and slowly, oh so, so slowly she moved it across her belly and her thighs. It was soft on her softness, and she felt herself part of the satin caress of its liquid perfume. She moaned quietly for the joy of it. This might be the shower above all showers.
At last, it was over. She reached for her towel and patted herself dry, stepped into fresh under clothes, and now the heat was there again as a wrap, as a comforter. She unfolded her white dress and flipped it in the air to slip it over her head. As she did so, her hair flew out in wet strands and the day’s veil caught on top of the dress, floated into the air.
The image of her nightmare flashed in front of her. It was Iphigenia’s veil. The heat. The dampness. The soldiers. No wind. No mercy. The water. She was in the water. Her hair floated across her eyes. Her eyes were closed. They made her open them. She didn’t want to open them. She didn’t want to…they were making her…the water. The veil had dropped into the water on the shower base where it was just a piece of cloth in a soggy pile on the base of a shower. She picked it up, squeezed out the water, spread it across the lever that was the tap. It would dry. It would be OK. It would be OK. It would be OK. She heard the words in her mind, like a mantra. It would be OK. It would be OK. It would be OK. It is OK. She left the room and joined the other travellers at the archway that left the shadowy protection and led out into the night and the stars.
They walked together on a sandy path down into the trees, and as they walked, they could see a fire. Dinner tonight was couscous under date palms by the dancing light of a fire. They sat on small woven mats in circles of three or four people. A great bowl was set in the middle of each circle, and the circles formed a greater circle about the fire. The intensity of the fire made the night outside the circles very black, and the leaping flames sparred with the passive heat that sat on the land all around them. Somewhere on the other side of the fire, someone played a drum the sound of which came out of the darkness and crossed the light to reach her. Then a voice began to sing a haunting of high, unfamiliar rhythm coiling in and out of the flames. A song of love? Lizzie couldn’t be sure.
She remembered that first loving in her first summer in Europe. It had been a brief and going—nowhere sort of loving but it had been part of her healing. He was married. He said he loved Lizzie and certainly, they had a wonderful week. He had called because he was in Geneva on business, and a mutual friend had given him her number. They had probably been at parties together sometimes at home in Oz but didn’t know each other. It was just another stranger-from-home-in-town-sort of meeting for a drink. He said he didn’t have affairs, and Lizzie thought there was a possibility he was telling the truth. Certainly, she was taken aback to find herself having an affair. He had seemed to find her work interesting, how different could it be from computers? She sensed he seemed surprised and then almost frightened that he seemed attracted so intensely.
What a lot of “seems”.
He said he wanted to take care of her. He was, apparently, very wealthy and was honest about enjoying his wealth and all that he had achieved. All that he had achieved was measured in his wealth: a big house in an expensive part of the city; another big house at an expensive beach resort; big expensive cars; three expensive daughters; an expensive wife. He didn’t dislike his wife. Lizzie thought he was quite comfortable with her. And as he said, if he left his wife he could lose half of his achievements. Who had said anything about him leaving his wife? They had known each other only a few days.
They had drinks at his hotel one evening. They had dinner at the beautiful Perle du Lac looking over Lac Leman at the Jet d’ Eau with the sun setting and a velvet night reaching out to them. They had been lovers. They had sat together in the Theatre de Verdure and wandered around the rose gardens, Parc de Grange and des Eaux Vives. They listened to some unknown jazz player who sent golden notes flitting into the summer’s evening and the elegant trees. The man’s arms were around her, and she rested against him on the grass. It was gentle and easy, and she knew it was an interlude.
It had been a long time since she had written anything for pleasure but she wrote that evening when he left her and returned to his hotel. She wrote for the sheer joy of feeling like writing again and out of gratitude for the gentle gift that he had given her—even if he didn’t know he had given it.
This
is my gift
to you.
We shall never
say the words
or promise
or expect
but
this is my gift
to you:
If I ever write
a poem
of yearning,
of springing to life
inside
of feeling my skin
and his
flow about me
like the satin
of a mountain lake—
if I ever write
of summer evening trees
with music
and ‘I wish, I wish’,
caught in their branches—
of folding together
in a garden
of golden velvet light…
of the strength
of a man
in a smile
and a touch
that gentles me…
of a kiss
that slowly unfurls
all my senses…
If I ever write
such a poem…
you should know
that it’s for you.
Then she made the mistake of showing him the poem when they had dinner together for what she knew would be the last time. He had already explained at great length, again, why he couldn’t leave his wife. He stuffed the piece of paper away as if afraid of it. Lizzie was pretty sure he would tear it into little pieces and flush it down the toilet so that it would never be found by the comfortable wife. It didn’t matter. The joy, for her, had been the writing. And the loving, of course. It had been a perfect summer interlude in a romantic, graceful city. The only hint he ever gave of himself and his dreams that went beyond his money-making and his property, the only clue to the man she thought may once have dreamed of a great love, was to talk of wild horses. He said he had dreamed of finding wild horses and of running with them.
They had been sitting on a leafy shaded terrace under the hill of the Chateau at Annecy. They could see the lake and the mountains across the water where earlier, they had taken a red pedalo, giggling like teenagers as both of them tried to pedal and both tried to steer. The lake at Annecy was pure and clean, green from the mountains and blue from the sky and glimmering from the sun’s reflections. They pedalled well out, then stripped to their bathers and swam in the mirror. It was cool as glass, and when they touched, the beads of water on their skins melted and slipped between them. Then they dried, close together, on the platform behind the seats of the pedalo.
Later, they strolled through the old town with its narrow streets, tourist cafes and shops, watched the swans paddle against the current in the channel, peered through the bars to look inside the old prison. When she turned to tell him to look in, his face was beside her, and he kissed her gently. ‘Do you know I think I love you?’ That was when she thought she felt the fear in his voice.
They decided against the tourist cafes and found the leafy terrace. As they sat, Lizzie saw the brightness of the paraponts sailing down from the mountains. She watched, and she had longed to know what it felt like to fly under those coloured silks. The memory was interrupted briefly as Lizzie did know, had flown with the brightness. Admittedly, not off a mountain, but she had flown. She knew that one day, she would return to Annecy, sit by the lake and watch bright, butterfly men parapont from the high mountains.
She would smile, remember a friend forgotten and wonder, ‘Did he ever find his wild horses?’ A nice man. A nice, wealthy, probably rather powerful, sad man. Of course, she never heard from him again. Strange that she should think of that brief time, sitting in the desert night watching flames and stars. Strange that music from another world could bring back memories. Lizzie did not understand the music, just heard the haunting in her own colours and her own feelings out of her own world. She just heard the haunting.
Gradually, the mood around the fire was changing. Now there was a faster beat of drums, a faster singing. Some of the men were dancing as the tempo of the evening changed and El Shef was standing in front of her, his hand held out inviting her to join the dance. But there were no other women dancing. The firelight flickered on his face as he looked down at her, and it was all too sudden. Good grief, had she really said that line?
This is so sudden, Mr Bulky.
Now she should simper and flutter her eyelashes like one of those camels. She didn’t. Nor did she accept the invitation to dance so El Shef shrugged and asked one of the Germans, a young buxom blonde who stood up quickly. Then the music became a parody of a belly dance, and El Shef circled, and the young woman wiggled, and everyone was having a good time.
Abdul sat down beside her and grinned, ‘You do not like to be the star of the tourist show, Lizzie?’
You are so right, Abdul. She would have felt and looked a fool. Geriatric gyrations under the palm trees? No thanks. I’m fine just sitting here, watching.
And she was. It was comfortable to be the onlooker and have time and space for her own musings.
As the fire sank, people began straggling back along the dark path. Lizzie was surprised that the heat stayed with them because she had thought in the desert it would always be cold at night yet this was a heat that pressed down upon her. It was a relief to enter again the space with the pool. It was softly lit with candles set inside clay holders that had patterns of slits and holes so that there was movement, a sense of dappled light in the shadows.
The pool was a gem of turquoise. It was not deep, maybe less than a metre, and people sat at the edges with their feet paddling in the cool. It was a quiet, softer time. Lizzie found a place, removed her sandals and felt the water between her toes and rising to her knees. Bliss: music, food, a warm night, cool water, a luxurious bed waiting. What more could anyone want?
Well, well, look who is actually wading in the pool, in tiny little bathers, what’s more. It is Mr Bulky alias El Shef. He is offering a glass of wine. I haven’t seen wine at all in this trip. I thought it was probably culturally incorrect. Yes, thank you, El Shef; I shall have a glass. I don’t want to refuse again after not dancing with you. Abdul, you are here too, sitting on one side of me while El Shef is lounging on the other. Why am I beginning to feel a little cornered? This is not great wine but you see, I am sipping it slowly. My feet are moving rhythmically in this delicious pool. I am smiling and nodding while Abdul talks to me and talks to El Shef. It has been a long day, and I think I am ready for bed. Any minute now, I shall excuse myself and retire to that inviting boudoir. I can feel my legs slowing down, and my eyes are getting sleepy. Stretch and smile. Hand back the glass. Nod towards your room.
I beg your pardon, Abdul?!? Did you say what I think you said?
‘Now, you will sleep with El Shef’
You did say that. You are saying it again. ‘Lizzie, now you will sleep with El Shef.’
You are not even asking a question. You are making a statement. In that lovely voice coming from your quite gorgeous mouth you are, ever-so-simply, telling me that now I will sleep with El Shef. Just a minute here, guys. When did this come into the script? What gave you the idea that I was ready to play this game? What is going on here, guys? El Shef is nodding approval to Abdul. Abdul, have I been the chosen goat, being fattened up—or at least softened up—for delivering to the chief? I certainly didn’t give you any indication that I was interested in anything like this.
Oh shit! The private cave. The private dinner. Even the biggest, bloody camel. Oh shit!
‘Sleep well, tomorrow will be a big night.’
Oh shit! Shit! Shit!
Abdul, El Shef, I love you. At least she hadn’t said that aloud. You are wonderful men—the prince of guides. I shall be your slave forever.
Oh, Oh. Oh. Shit. Shit. Shit. I didn’t say those things but I thought them, and I accepted all the special treatment. And I bet you thought I was just being coy last night and being discreet or something when I didn’t dance. And I bet you think you are onto a sure thing with the aging single lady not wearing a wedding ring and smiling and probably looking as though she hasn’t had a screw in ages and she’d be desperate—or grateful.
Oh. Oh. Oh. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Now, don’t panic, Lizzie.
What the fuck do you mean, don’t panic? What the fuck should I do? It’s obvious they think I’ve been leading them on. Why would they think anyone would be stupid enough not to realise what was happening?
Well, you did wonder, back in the cave. But I didn’t think—well, not really—Oh, oh, oh, shit, shit, shit. Well, say something.
‘No, thank you, Abdul.’
Oh brilliant! He is not offering you a plate of scones. You’ll have to do better than that, my girl. See, he thinks you don’t understand.
‘Yes, Lizzie, now you will sleep with El Shef.’
Stop saying that!
‘No thank you Abdul. It is very kind…but thank you. I don’t think I will sleep with EL Shef.’
El Shef is asking Abdul what’s going on. That’s it, Abdul, spit it out. She says she won’t sleep with you. Now what are you saying, El Shef? You don’t look particularly perturbed. What are you saying?
‘Lizzie, El Shef thinks that perhaps I have not been clear. Tonight, you will sleep with him. It is arranged.’
Well un-arrange it, mate! I might have been stupid…OK…I have been stupid, but I will not, repeat will not, sleep with El Shef. Are you getting my message? I hope it is sounding polite the way I’m saying it to you but the answer is definitely no! So tell that to your boss.
You are. Now there’s a longer discussion. El Shef is giving you more to say. What’s going on, now? He still doesn’t look like a man who has been rebuffed. He’s looking a little impatient, that’s all. Abdul, am I hearing you properly? This is the biggest load of bullshit that has ever been handed as a line to a female by a member of your gender. El Shef has just lost his wife? Ten days ago? Ten days ago, you said? She died in childbirth? Twins? Of course, it was twins. Boys, I suppose? Of course, twin boys. Yes, Abdul, it does sound very sad. Yes, I can see that El Shef is upset. His head is now hanging slightly. Yes, yes, Abdul. That must have been very painful. It is very painful. Yes, I can see that El Shef is very, very sad. Poor El Shef. Poor Abdul for having to spin this yarn. Ten days ago? El Shef is very brave. He does not show his pain. He sure doesn’t, mate! Are you working up to the punchline, here, Abdul? Yes, here it comes, with a shrug of your shoulders, a huge sigh from El Shef and a clasping of your hands.
‘So, you see, Lizzie, El Shef has not had a woman for many days. This is very sad for him. So, now, Lizzie, you will sleep with El Shef.’
I have to believe that somewhere among desperate, middle-aged tourists, this line works because it could not have been dreamt up without some sense that it works. But it is amazing. Quite, quite amazing. Ten days, and the poor man is afraid it’s going to drop off from lack of use. And women fall for this?
Back to the matter in hand. At least, back to the matter which is not and will not be in hand. Be sympathetic. Be very sympathetic. Appear to believe every word of this crock of shit. You could even sigh a little. And now deliver that brilliant piece of oratory, that sparkling verbal riposte, that clever, tactful, diplomatic exit line.
‘No, thank you.’
Add your sympathies, say you are flattered. Oh, Germaine Greer and sister feminists, forgive me, but this is time to exit. Forget the politically correct response.
‘No thank you.’
El Shef is not receiving this news smilingly. He is looking decidedly disgruntled. Lots of talking going on here now. Lots of hand waving and frowning and no lounging, just straight backs and I am afraid you are getting the blame, Abdul. Just a minute. There is a change of mood. Was that a shrug of acceptance that I saw? Abdul, are you indeed a master diplomat? Have you interpreted that refusal so that it does not rankle? Are you soothing the situation? Abdul, you are wonderful.
‘Lizzie. El Shef has made a decision.’
Another one?
‘El Shef agrees that he will sleep with the young German lady…’
Wonderful, wonderful Abdul.
‘…and you…’ Big smile. ‘…you will sleep with me.’
Oh, oh, oh. Shit, shit, shit.
Now is time to bring down the curtain. Stand up. Fix your skirt as demurely as Reverend Mother could ever have done it. Look him firmly in the eye—or however one looks someone in the eye. Take two steps towards your room. Deliver the line.
‘No thank you, Abdul.’
Now move! Get to that room with its one big bed. How could you have been so thick? Move it, Lizzie. Close the door. Thankfully, there is a key. Turn the key. Throw yourself dramatically on the bed and ask yourself how the fuck you get yourself into these situations? Why are you not back in suburban Melbourne joining a sewing circle or a book club or playing tennis? What the fuck are doing in the middle of a desert, virtually on your own, being propositioned by gorgeous men who look as though they’ve just stepped out of a movie? Well, put it like that…
She heard the door to the next room open. Two voices. The door closed. Silence. She held her breath. The door opening. Abdul. A woman’s voice. El Shef’s voice. Abdul saying goodnight. A few murmurs. Different voices. Noises going on for a quite amazingly long time. Really, El Shef, I am impressed. And I can tell the young lady is impressed too. Oh, El Shef, that’s enough, now. I want to go to sleep. O help, why aren’t these rooms soundproofed?
The next morning, Abdul, El Shef and the German lady all looked refreshed, even glowing while Lizzie had circles under her eyes and felt like a zombie. Where was the justice? She was ignored by El Shef for the rest of the day, and Abdul was distant. Lizzie felt like the runt of the litter chasing after the group and scrambling for a drink as she perched on the end of a crowded table waiting to be fed scraps. Come off it! Well, she certainly noticed the difference in treatment and was relieved when the vehicles pulled up in front of the Hôtel de l’ Orange late that evening. It looked like home. Her bag was dropped on the step, and El Shef drove off in a cloud of dust. Then Abdul was at her side.
‘Goodbye, Lizzie.’
He was smiling warmly. He was definitely knock-down-dead gorgeous. ‘I have a small gift for you. It may not give you wishes or take away that sometime sadness in your eyes, but perhaps when you look at it, you will remember me?’
He put something into her hand, touched her hair, got back into the truck and drove away. It was a small, clay oil-lamp with a smiling face, like something out of Aladdin. There was no genie, but there was a beautiful memory so Lizzie smiled, hoisted up her bag and went into the light of the reception area. She had been still smiling when she boarded her plane the next day. Lizzie recalled that she had felt amazingly rested and confident.
Well, the confidence must have built from there although there had been a few moments on her most recent trip that had scared the hell out of her. Brazil had not been easy. And she was tired tonight too. She guessed the effort of it was catching up with her. A good night’s sleep would fix it, a sleep without worrying about who or what was after her—or, maybe, just a sleep without her imagination at full gallop as it had been in Brazil? She stepped back into the warmth of her apartment, switched off all the lights, slipped under her duvet, registered that it was dark and she was alone and she was not at all afraid, smiled thinking of Sam and slept.