“Where’s Bella?” Cristo asked when Mario met them at the Tunis airport. It was becoming easier to think of his childhood friend with his new name. Mario was almost more Tunisian than Italian now, with his slight beard and loose-fitting clothing.
“She’s not feeling great.” There was a worry in his eyes that Cristo knew only too well.
“Egyptian flu?”
Farrah looked confused.
Mario’s smile confirmed it before his words. “Yes. We’re being extra cautious, and I don’t want her to travel.”
“I don’t understand,” Farrah said after Cristo had finished man-hugging his friend.
“Egyptian flu is something only women get, and it turns them into a mummy.”
Farrah squealed. She hugged Mario for a long moment.
“This is so wonderful. Our babies will be friends.” She rubbed her expanding belly. Cristo was amazed at how much it had grown in the few weeks he’d been home full-time.
“If Bella’s not traveling, then Farrah shouldn’t either.”
“That’s different,” Farrah replied. “I’m Tunisian, a daughter of the Sahara. These are my people we’re going to see. I’m more accustomed to the food and climate. Besides, I’m an integral part of this operation. There’s no point going if I’m not there.”
Mario nodded at each of her points, but it didn’t ease the tension in Cristo’s neck muscles.
“It’s true. We can’t go without her.”
Cristo didn’t need to be a mind reader to know Mario was wondering how he was going to run the company without Farrah traveling as much as she currently did. After a negotiation that had taken way longer than it should have, Farrah had agreed to stop traveling in her thirty-fifth week. Which was five weeks longer than Cristo had wanted. He was not looking forward to the discussion about when she’d get back on the road following the baby’s birth.
Now wasn’t the time for Cristo to suggest that they start looking for someone to replace Farrah on a permanent basis. But as soon as this trip was done, he’d plant the seed. He chuckled to himself. Seed planting: definitely something at which he excelled.
“Want to let us in on the joke?” Farrah asked.
“It’s nothing.” He was saved from further inquiry as they called pre-boarding on their flight to Libya.
“Excuse me a minute.” Farrah disappeared toward the ladies’ washroom. She returned a few minutes later covered head to toe. A loose-fitting black abaya fell to the floor, and only her kohl-rimmed dark eyes showed with the niqab. He had a hard time recognizing his own wife.
The flight was short and uncomfortable, the Sabha airport a hot mess, and the rental vehicle they eventually were given had seen many better days. Farrah kept her eyes on the floor the whole time, whispering words of translation to him or Mario only when necessary. His friend, too, was on edge and kept within an arm’s length of Farrah at all times. It wasn’t until they were on the road out of the city that his two companions relaxed.
“Allegedly, there’s a slave market in Sabha,” Mario said by way of explanation. “Every time we pass through, I have nightmares about Farrah or Bella being snatched from me.”
“What?” Cristo’s yell was loud enough that the people in the car next to them looked over. “You tell me this now?”
“The trade is in sub-Saharan Africans,” Farrah said calmly. “Dressed like this, no one looks twice at me.”
Mario nodded, although he didn’t look convinced. Cristo didn’t dare speak. He and Farrah would be discussing this new revelation in private.
He still hadn’t managed to unclench his teeth about the slave market news when they came upon a military checkpoint. They were waved through after showing their passports and giving their destination. As they drove, bombed or burned buildings became a common sight. Every few miles they passed abandoned vehicles that had been stripped of everything except their paint. All evidence of the continued instability of the country. The Libyan people had suffered so much. The hair on the back of his neck went on high alert.
A second checkpoint loomed on the horizon. This one had a cement building next to it. The new paint job and oversized Libyan flag were the opposite of reassuring. Mario white-knuckled the steering wheel and said a few words in Arabic to Farrah.
“What’s happening?” Cristo asked, his stomach clenching so tightly he wouldn’t have to do crunches for a month.
Mario’s lips barely moved as he answered. “This is the always a sticky point. Do. Not. Say. Anything.”
Mario stopped where indicated and handed the keys to the soldier, who didn’t look young enough to shave, never mind handle an automatic assault rifle. A tense conversation ensued in Arabic with much gesturing toward Farrah in the back seat. A second soldier forcefully pulled open the back door next to her, and Cristo almost leaped from his seat. He’d have exited the vehicle as well if Mario hadn’t clamped down on his arm with enough force to leave bruises.
More Arabic. Tension flowed off his traveling companions in waves high enough to drown a camel.
“Get out of the car. Stand beside me. Say nothing.” Mario’s terse commands in English nearly sent Cristo over the edge.
The three of them got out. Farrah stood, eyes on the dirt, between him and Mario. He shifted so his fingers touched hers, and she gripped them tightly.
Another man emerged from the building. This one had so many medals attached to his jacket it was amazing he could walk without leaning forward. He barked a command in Arabic, and Farrah was nudged forward, a rifle at her shoulder. She entered the building, after which another soldier guarded the door, his gun pointed at Cristo.
Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to spring into action. He clenched his fists and shifted his weight.
“Don’t move,” Mario said quietly in English. “These guys don’t start with their fists. They will shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Farrah—”
“Will be okay if we stay cool. And speak English here. Many Libyans still have the hate on for all things Italian.”
Cristo was ready to jump out of his skin. He calculated twenty different scenarios where he ran into the building and rescued his wife. Unfortunately, in every single one of them he was fatally shot before he’d moved two meters.
It was an agonizing fifteen minutes later when Farrah reappeared. He scanned her for signs of mistreatment, but her abaya prevented him from seeing anything. She nodded slightly and then returned to the car. The leader with the decorated jacket handed a piece of paper to Mario, who indicated to Cristo to get back in the vehicle. As soon as they were on the road again, Farrah handed them each a bottle of water.
They were five kilometers from the checkpoint before Cristo felt able to moderate his voice. Even then, it came out near shout. “What the hell was all that about?”
“We’re near a sensitive military base here. And Farrah resembles a terrorist who has tried to blow the place up in the past.”
“And you bring my wife here?” He and Mario were going to have more than words once they got to their destination.
“We started working with the village before this other woman made her first attack. There were no problems then, just the regular checkpoints like the first one we went through.”
“You should have stopped coming the first time you were pulled in for examination.” He was still nearly shouting, but given the adrenaline pumping through his body, he could do nothing about it. It was either yell or rip something apart with his bare hands.
Farrah leaned forward. “But this is our best-producing village, and once you see the great work we’ve been able to accomplish here—”
“Farrah.”
“Don’t you ‘Farrah’ me. I already know what you’re going to say when you use that tone. You’re going to tell me I can’t do something. Well. Listen up, Cristoforo Bernini. This is my life, my decisions, and I will do what I want.”
He couldn’t stop fear and frustration from roughening his voice. “But it’s more than just your life now—”
Farrah bit down on her bottom lip, and Mario shot him a look like he was something he’d stepped in by accident.
“Leave it, Cristo,” Mario said.
“I just have one more question. Will we have to go through that all again when we return?” He wasn’t sure he could handle it a second time. He’d call in a helicopter to airlift them out if need be.
“No. The commandant gave me a letter saying we are not terrorists. We can show that at any further checkpoints and on the return.”
“How reassuring.” Not.
The rest of the drive was accomplished in silence. When he glanced back, Farrah was sleeping—or pretending to, at least. They eventually pulled into the small village just as the sun was setting.
Before they could even get out, the vehicle was surrounded by small children, all of them chanting, “Super Mario.”
“Your fan club?”
“Something like that. Shall I introduce you as Luigi?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said with a tight smile. It would be a while before his face relaxed enough to manage a genuine grin.
Farrah swayed when they got out of the vehicle, and Cristo was quick to wrap his arms around her. If he had his way, he’d never let her go. The episode at the checkpoint was still too fresh in his mind. He wanted to get her someplace private and make sure she was unharmed—that she hadn’t been assaulted while out of his sight. Had they touched her? His molars took another one for the team as he forced his hands to remain gentle on her shoulders.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his lips against her temple. The head covering prevented him from touching her skin.
“Yes. Fine.” A glassiness in her eyes belied her words. She’d removed the lower part of her niqab, so at least he could see most of her face now.
He glanced around the village. The houses were a mishmash of mud, brick, and bits of car, with grass roofs. But the area had a neat, welcoming appearance. Like the people who lived here really cared. A new-looking building made from breeze block with a corrugated roof, open on the two long sides, proudly bore a sign proclaiming it the village school. An annex on the far end bore the red crescent of a medical facility.
Farrah picked up a little girl around two years old and gave her a big, noisy kiss on the cheek. The child squealed and tried to reciprocate, only to be blocked by fabric as a breeze blew the niqab between them. Farrah removed the headgear, and the little girl tried again, giggling when she blew a raspberry on Farrah’s cheek.
Warmth eased some of the tightness in Cristo’s chest. Soon Farrah, too, was surrounded with little ones all vying for kisses and cuddles. Cristo was pushed to the side, although a few of the women gave him wary glances. Eventually, after all the children had been greeted, Farrah took his hand and introduced him to the adult villagers.
They were then led into the school, where a feast had been set up. They sat on benches, the children on the floor in a semicircle in front and the mothers hovering in the background. British royals couldn’t have been treated more honorably.
Farrah recounted the changes they’d seen since they’d first started working with the women almost four years ago. Some of the artisans brought forward a few of their new works for inspection, and although he couldn’t understand Farrah’s words, her praise and encouragement were reflected in the smiles and pride on the women’s faces.
When the proceedings finally wound down and some of the children were carted off, protesting, by their mothers, he asked the all-important question. “Where are we sleeping tonight?” From what he’d seen, the car would be their best option. Although folding his length onto a seat half his size was not going to be fun.
Farrah spoke to one of the older women. The elder gestured in reply, pointing at a small hut near the school. “She has moved out and will stay with her daughter tonight. She’s the village elder, so it is a great honor to sleep in her home.”
“And Mario?”
“He’ll bed down here in the school.”
Mario chimed in, “Doesn’t matter. Without Bella next to me, I’m not going to get much sleep anyway.”
Even with Farrah in his arms, Cristo didn’t think he’d rest. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her being led away at gunpoint.
He’d made a vow to keep her safe, and he was going to keep it. Whether she wanted him to or not.
***
Cristo entered the hut behind her and groaned. It was tiny. But there was a mattress on a metal camp bed covered in colorful blankets.
“Do you have your phone?” she asked.
“If you’re ringing the hotel manager and asking for another pillow, I’d like a word.”
She chuckled. “No, I need the flashlight to check for bugs.”
“Farrah, I don’t want to sound like the rich Westerner who’s never had to rough it, but … I’m not sure I can sleep here.”
“Don’t be such a baby. I’ve stayed in worse.” She completed her inspection; it all looked clear. Cristo stepped around her and went to grab the pillow. “Wait!”
He froze, and she lifted the pillow carefully, shining the light underneath. She released a sigh of relief. “Good. No scorpions. I hate scorpions.”
“When we are back in Tunis, preferably naked together in the shower, we are seriously going to discuss this trip. I have aged twenty years since we left home.”
She had as well. She’d never admit it to him, but she’d been terrified at the last checkpoint. The first time she’d been pulled in for questioning, she hadn’t realized the severity of her situation. This time, with Cristo there, knowing she carried a precious life, and recognizing the evil gleam in the commander’s eye, she was truly frightened. She’d have to talk with Mario, because there couldn’t be a repeat of today, especially as her pregnancy progressed.
“Do you want to go sleep with Mario in the school? To warn you, it gets really cold at night. And you’ve got to sleep under a net because of the mosquitoes.”
He literally bit his tongue before coming over to wrap his arms around her again. She leaned into his chest, wanting—needing—his strength. “I doubt I’ll sleep, but I have to hold you. I have never been as frightened as I was when I saw you led away with a gun at your back.”
He lay down, and she snuggled against him. Not that there was any other option—the bed was barely wide enough for her, and Cristo’s legs dangled off the end. Still, the rhythmic beat of her husband’s heart under her ear lulled her with its promise of security, and within minutes she felt herself drifting off to sleep.
When she woke in the morning, it wasn’t to a steaming cup of mint-and-ginger tea but to the smiling faces of at least ten children. Giggling, they led her out of the hut into the early morning sunshine, where Mario and Cristo were putting on a kind of pantomime to wild laughter from the village children. It took her a few seconds to figure out they were mimicking some sort of computer game. She sat on the ground to watch the show, and soon had three little girls all vying to sit on her lap and two boys leaning on her shoulders, playing with her hair. After yesterday’s tension, the mood was much lighter today.
Too soon the older children were called to start their lessons, and the younger children gathered with the older women so their mothers could get to work. Farrah and Mario met with the four women who had been elected artisan leaders to discuss production and delivery schedules. Within an hour, all their business was concluded, and after a few more kisses and cuddles from the little ones, they climbed back into the SUV.
Cristo elected to sit in the back next to Farrah, and she welcomed his company although talk was at a minimum. Everyone seemed caught up in their own thoughts.
Where was chatty Bella when they needed her? At home, making sure her unborn baby had the best chance at life. Farrah shut down the niggle of guilt.
The drive back to Sabha was tedious but uneventful. They showed the commandant’s letter and were waved through without ceremony. Even the flight from Sabha to Laayoune, the largest city in Western Sahara, was boring. They stayed the night in a small but pleasant hotel. Farrah was able to go without her abaya and niqab here and wore just the hijab when she went out.
Before dawn the next day, they set out for the village near the edge of the berm that divided the country. They’d hired a driver, so Mario sat up front with him and Cristo sat in the back with her.
The women in this village had moved out of the refugee camp for various reasons but were desperately poor. Several months ago, she, Mario, and Bella had come to collect the first batch of product only to find that it hadn’t been made properly and was useless. They’d come back earlier than scheduled, at Bella’s urging, to see if the new items were any better.
It took five tedious hours to reach the village, and they hoped to be back on the road within two. But it took only ten minutes to realize that the product was once again substandard.
“What are we going to do?” Mario asked in English. “If I go home and tell Bella that they’ve still got nothing, she’s going to be so upset.”
“I love how your business decisions now center on keeping your wife happy.” Farrah tried to lighten her words with a smile, but Mario wasn’t fooled.
“I know there’s more at stake here than Bella’s feelings.”
She closed her eyes for a few seconds, concentrating on a breathing technique that would hopefully calm her. Unfortunately, it did nothing for the back pains she was suffering from bending over so much, the return of morning sickness she was desperate to hide from Cristo, or the aching emptiness inside that she was unable to help these women.
“There’s just not enough clay to produce pottery here. We’ll have to either give up or find some other product they can make. What do they have masses of?”
They looked around the village. Every hut was in desperate need of repair. Her gaze caught on Cristo, who was atop a handmade ladder, trying to patch a hole in one of the roofs with the plastic from a discarded five-gallon water bottle. A handful of chickens and three goats looked on with interest.
A shift in the wind blew sand into her eye, and she blinked rapidly to get it out.
Inspiration hit as she managed to free her vision of grit. “What about some sort of artwork made with sand? We’ll need a binding agent.”
“I have some glue in my bag,” Mario said.
While he went off to retrieve that, Farrah wandered around the huts, looking for other items she could use.
“Everything okay, cara?” Cristo called down from atop the rickety ladder.
“Yes. Just… Oh, that might work.”
“Habibty?”
“Do you need the bottom of these water bottles?”
“No. I cut the bottom off, and I’m trying to use the circumference to patch some of these holes. I know it doesn’t rain here often, but the blowing sand accumulates inside.”
“So, it’s okay if I take these?” She picked up the three plastic bottoms and strode over to the makeshift worktable they’d set up earlier. It was a piece of warped plywood on a couple of metal drums, but it was good enough for her needs.
Mario returned with the bottle of liquid glue and several other art supplies he had with him. “Can you pulverize the chalk?” she asked him.
“Sure.”
While he set to work, she called two of the more artistic women over to watch. This might not work, but if it did…
She first sketched out a design on the plastic with an all-purpose pen. She added the now-powdered blue chalk to some of the sand she’d had the children collect for her. Next, she traced out part of her pattern with the glue, then drizzled the sand over top to stick to it. She continued with the pattern, adding glue and various colors. Beads of sweat trickled down her face, and she wiped them with her sleeve; the glue dried almost instantly in the heat so she didn’t have time to stop. Someone mopped her brow with a cool cloth, then held an umbrella above her to keep the sun off the back of her neck.
Once the pattern was covered in sand, she carefully blew away the excess material with a straw and then placed another of the plastic bottoms over it to protect the design.
When she finally looked up, the entire village was staring at her. Mario had his mouth open. Cristo stood behind her, holding the umbrella, his eyes wide with wonder.
“Farrah—” Mario began.
“That’s amazing,” Cristo completed the sentence.
“Do you think they’d sell?”
“Absolutely,” both men said at the same time.
“Can you do this?” Farrah asked one of the women. “I can leave you a few patterns to follow, but it would be better if you created your own designs and if as many as possible were individualized. To make it easier, you can alter the colors so they look different.”
The village women around her began to talk excitedly among themselves. Some suggested patterns they could use, others adding thoughts on color combinations. From somewhere, Cristo had found a white plastic chair and urged her to sit, while still keeping the sun off her with the umbrella. In his halting Arabic, he asked a small boy to run to their vehicle and get a bottle of water for her.
“I can have chalk and glue delivered to the village in the next couple of days,” Mario said. “They’ve got plenty of plastic to start with, and I’ll arrange regular deliveries after that.” This is where Mario excelled: the logistics side Farrah hated navigating. Maybe she’d been too hasty in her desire to part ways. Her chest no longer ached when she looked at Mario. In fact, she felt nothing but a warmth of friendship when she considered the man she’d once thought to be her future.
“Are you okay?” Cristo asked softly. He ran a damp cloth down her arms, removing the layer of sweat and sand that had accumulated while she worked.
She gazed up at her husband, and the chatter of the women faded, the ache in her back disappeared, and her heart fluttered. Leaning her head against him, she relished the gentle pressure of his fingers as he massaged her tight shoulders. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Let’s get you to a bed, then,” Cristo said. The warmth of his gaze promised more caring once she was between the sheets.
“It shouldn’t take them long to produce enough product to warrant a shipment.” Mario’s voice brought her attention back to the present.
“That ought to make Bella happy,” she replied.
Mario’s eyes narrowed. “And you?”
“Yes, I’ll count today a success.” But when she tried to stand, her legs wouldn’t cooperate. Cristo dropped the umbrella and swept her up into his arms, his face once again grim.
“Are we done here?” He didn’t even wait for Mario’s reply before he headed toward the vehicle, carrying Farrah.
Mario said a few more things to the village women before he too made his way to the waiting Jeep.
The driver jumped inside and started the engine. Cristo put her gently into the back seat before racing around and climbing in the other side. The smell of the glue had increased her nausea, but at least her concentration on the artwork had allowed her to keep her lunch down.
Cristo pulled her in his arms as soon as he got in. “You are an incredible woman,” he murmured against her temple.
Not quite the words she wanted to hear, but they helped.