Read Online The Weeping Desert by Alexandra Thomas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alexandra Thomas
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think there’s a young lady in distress.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, stay where you are. You’ve done enough already.”
“Please re-fasten your safety belt until the notice goes off. We are still climbing.”
John hurried along the aisle, swaying, finding it difficult to counteract the angle of the climb.
Khadija was slumped over her belt like a rag doll. He lifted her back so that her head lolled against the starched white headrest. Her forehead was ashen under the olive pigment, beads of perspiration running down under her mask. He loosened the neck fastening of her robe and explored the curious paraphernalia of the mask. The cloak slipped off her dark glossy hair, and John was able to remove the mask. Her skin was flawless; not a trace of the ugly purple-black juice used to dye the masks. The dye had not yet marred her skin, as it had many Arab women’s.
John turned the air vent towards her so that a cooling stream of air played on her face. He wiped the sweat off with his handkerchief and, despite his annoyance, he could not help admiring the perfection of her features.
Khadija moaned a little, her lashes fluttering like moths on a dark summer’s night. She opened her eyes, and John saw in their dark depths a torrent of terror and fear.
“Are we going to die?” she whimpered.
“You are quite safe,” said John, surprised at the gentleness in his voice. “The plane has made a perfect take off. Look, now you can unfasten your seat belt. You’ll feel more comfortable without that tight strap round your middle.”
She clutched his arm desperately. “Don’t leave me,” she cried. “I am so afraid.”
“I only have a limited amount of sympathy for you, young lady,” said John. “This is entirely your own doing. I don’t know what you are planning, but one thing is sure. You are getting off at Kuwait.”
“Please,” Khadija began, “my father insist I go with my husband—”
“Nonsense,” said John curtly. “He was only too pleased to see the back of me.”
“It is not true. He says a wife’s place is beside her husband. It is good Arab law. You should know that my father, the sheikh, had plans for me, his favourite daughter. At the age of seven I was betrothed to my cousin Ahmed Karim, heir to Shuqrat if my father does not have a son. But I told my father that you are a most important person in the oil company and have a great deal of money and a fine palace in England, and he was comforted, for it is important to be in good relations with the oil company.”
John choked. He doubted if the colossal Anglo-American firm he worked for would be much impressed by his new status. Being son-in-law of the sheikh was no guarantee to a ticket to the boardroom. He was more likely to get the sack for violating some anti-fraternising rule in the terms of his contract.
“You are getting off at Kuwait,” he repeated firmly.
“Oh, do not make me.” She turned to John, pleading, her eyes filling with tears. “Please listen to me. You are a kind man, I know it. Have a little compassion.” She faltered slightly on the long word and moistened her lips. “I am nineteen years old. I have lived in Oman Said all my life. If you send me back, I will never have a chance to see this other world, this outside world, these places I have seen in magazines and people who talk on television, women walking in the street and shopping in the daylight.” Her face lit up as she thought of what she knew of Western freedom.
“Please let me see a little of this life, just a few weeks. I will be no trouble to you,” she said softly. “I promise.”
John felt himself weakening. Harem life was probably cruel, mentally and physically. If he sent her back, it was like committing her to life imprisonment. No doubt security at the royal palace would be tightened now, and Khadija’s outings even more strictly supervised by the gaunt elder sister, Hatijeh. Perhaps even that cool refuge, her summer kiosk, was
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, stay where you are. You’ve done enough already.”
“Please re-fasten your safety belt until the notice goes off. We are still climbing.”
John hurried along the aisle, swaying, finding it difficult to counteract the angle of the climb.
Khadija was slumped over her belt like a rag doll. He lifted her back so that her head lolled against the starched white headrest. Her forehead was ashen under the olive pigment, beads of perspiration running down under her mask. He loosened the neck fastening of her robe and explored the curious paraphernalia of the mask. The cloak slipped off her dark glossy hair, and John was able to remove the mask. Her skin was flawless; not a trace of the ugly purple-black juice used to dye the masks. The dye had not yet marred her skin, as it had many Arab women’s.
John turned the air vent towards her so that a cooling stream of air played on her face. He wiped the sweat off with his handkerchief and, despite his annoyance, he could not help admiring the perfection of her features.
Khadija moaned a little, her lashes fluttering like moths on a dark summer’s night. She opened her eyes, and John saw in their dark depths a torrent of terror and fear.
“Are we going to die?” she whimpered.
“You are quite safe,” said John, surprised at the gentleness in his voice. “The plane has made a perfect take off. Look, now you can unfasten your seat belt. You’ll feel more comfortable without that tight strap round your middle.”
She clutched his arm desperately. “Don’t leave me,” she cried. “I am so afraid.”
“I only have a limited amount of sympathy for you, young lady,” said John. “This is entirely your own doing. I don’t know what you are planning, but one thing is sure. You are getting off at Kuwait.”
“Please,” Khadija began, “my father insist I go with my husband—”
“Nonsense,” said John curtly. “He was only too pleased to see the back of me.”
“It is not true. He says a wife’s place is beside her husband. It is good Arab law. You should know that my father, the sheikh, had plans for me, his favourite daughter. At the age of seven I was betrothed to my cousin Ahmed Karim, heir to Shuqrat if my father does not have a son. But I told my father that you are a most important person in the oil company and have a great deal of money and a fine palace in England, and he was comforted, for it is important to be in good relations with the oil company.”
John choked. He doubted if the colossal Anglo-American firm he worked for would be much impressed by his new status. Being son-in-law of the sheikh was no guarantee to a ticket to the boardroom. He was more likely to get the sack for violating some anti-fraternising rule in the terms of his contract.
“You are getting off at Kuwait,” he repeated firmly.
“Oh, do not make me.” She turned to John, pleading, her eyes filling with tears. “Please listen to me. You are a kind man, I know it. Have a little compassion.” She faltered slightly on the long word and moistened her lips. “I am nineteen years old. I have lived in Oman Said all my life. If you send me back, I will never have a chance to see this other world, this outside world, these places I have seen in magazines and people who talk on television, women walking in the street and shopping in the daylight.” Her face lit up as she thought of what she knew of Western freedom.
“Please let me see a little of this life, just a few weeks. I will be no trouble to you,” she said softly. “I promise.”
John felt himself weakening. Harem life was probably cruel, mentally and physically. If he sent her back, it was like committing her to life imprisonment. No doubt security at the royal palace would be tightened now, and Khadija’s outings even more strictly supervised by the gaunt elder sister, Hatijeh. Perhaps even that cool refuge, her summer kiosk, was
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