The Long Road to Baghdad (2011) Page 19

  ‘I sent her to your tent for safekeeping …’

  ‘That’s not what she says.’

  ‘Let her tell me that herself.’

  ‘How many times and in how many ways must I say your marriage has served its purpose?’

  ‘Furja would not agree with you.’

  ‘She cannot think for herself. She is ill.’

  ‘All the more reason for me to see her.’ Harry turned his head. Two of Shalan’s men were closing in behind him. He put his hand on his sword. ‘You’ll have to kill me to keep me from her, Shalan.’

  ‘Let me speak to him, father.’

  Furja stepped through the curtain. It was the first time Harry had seen her dressed in anything other than her red bridal robes. She wore the plain, black garb of the Bedouin women. But the robes were neither voluminous nor shapeless enough to disguise the advanced state of her pregnancy.

  Shalan ordered his men to clear the tent. He brushed past Furja without a word and entered his harem, allowing the curtain to fall behind him. Harry stared helplessly, wanting to wrap his arms about Furja and swing her high in the air as he’d done when they’d lived together in Basra, but her pregnancy made him feel awkward and ridiculously shy.

  Unfastening her veil, she walked to the corner of the tent furthest from the curtain. Sinking onto a pile of rugs, she beckoned him closer.

  ‘So, Harry, you’ve been looking for me?’ Something of the old mischief glinted in her eyes, but her face was thin and there were lines of strain at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘I was worried about you.’ Sitting at her feet, he reached for her hands.

  ‘You left me with Mitkhal. You knew he’d take me to my father.’

  ‘I was afraid you’d get caught in the fighting. That the Turks would capture you.’ Images of Basra flooded his mind. The wailing women. The swollen sacks being dragged from the Shatt. The stench of death permeating the cold morning air.

  ‘Were you afraid the Turks would capture my father’s daughter, or the wife of a British officer?’

  ‘I don’t need reminding you’d be doubly damned in Turkish eyes.’

  ‘I wasn’t captured, Harry.’

  He tried to smile, but his attention was drawn to her swollen stomach.

  ‘Your son, Harry.’ Taking his hand, she pressed it against her.

  ‘Or daughter,’ he murmured; awed by the prospect of the new life she carried.

  ‘I’ll have no daughters, only sons.’

  ‘How can you expect me to divorce you? Now of all times.’

  ‘My father …’

  ‘I am not interested in your father. Only you.’

  ‘And if I should want a divorce?’

  ‘I’d try to persuade you otherwise.’

  ‘How can I remain married to you when your Great War drives us apart? You have to fight for your Ferenghis. And I have to stay here and worry.’

  ‘Would you worry less if I divorced you?’

  ‘I will always worry about my father and my tribe. Their fate is mine and that of my son.’

  ‘Our son,’ he corrected.

  ‘I will worry about you, for our son’s sake.’

  ‘I won’t divorce you, Furja. Not unless you ask me, and –’ he looked into her eyes ‘– mean it.’

  ‘I cannot stay married …’

  Afraid of what she was about to say, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, gently, on the mouth.

  ‘I’m carrying your child, Harry. Not an ancient grandmother on the point of death.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve never had a pregnant wife before. I’m not sure how to treat you.’

  ‘Try the same way you treated me before.’

  ‘Then you’ll stay married to me?’

  ‘Our marriage no longer makes sense.’

  ‘It does to me.’

  ‘Not to my father.’

  ‘Your father …’

  ‘Is concerned only for me and his grandson,’ she interposed.

  ‘You think I’m not?’

  ‘My father and our people have travelled for many years, taking care to avoid the Turks. Sometimes –’ her eyes darkened ‘– we didn’t manage it. Now we have to hide from the British as well. And you, Harry, are a British soldier.’

  ‘That could prove an advantage to you and our son. Basra is under our jurisdiction. If you returned there with me, I could install you in a house in the European quarter. You and our child would be miles from the fighting, and the Turks.’

  ‘You promised my father no Ferenghi house, and now you want to go back on your word. Put me among people who would look down on me and my heritage.’

  ‘In God’s name, Furja, I made that promise before war broke out. I can’t fight, worrying about you and our child every minute of every day we’re apart.’ He was amazed how easily the phrase had sprung to his lips. “Our child”. A life he and Furja had created. Were duty bound to love, cherish and protect. He was suddenly afraid. Overwhelmed by the responsibilities of fatherhood.

  ‘Don’t you mean Allah’s name.’

  ‘Allah! God! What’s the difference?’

  ‘A great deal, Harry. You told my father you were a true believer.’

  ‘He supposed …’

  ‘And you lied. Just as you lied about the Ferenghi house you want me to live in.’ Anger blazed in her eyes. He reined in his temper. He’d forgotten about Furja’s rages.

  ‘I’m not Ferenghi. A milk-faced, useless creature without a brain like cousin John’s Maud. I won’t allow you to shut me in a safe place only to take me out when you’ve time to spare,’ Furja railed. ‘I am Bedawi. Your son will be Bedawi. We’ll live as our people have always lived, here, in the desert. It’s our home, and neither you nor the Turks will take it from us.’ She raised her clenched fists. He caught them.

  ‘I can’t bear the thought of you in danger.’

  ‘Like you, sitting in a Turkish command post.’

  ‘I’m a soldier. I have no choice. The minute this show is over, I’m resigning my commission, packing my bags, and …’ What then? Back to Dorset? Cool, emerald green fields. Woods with more trees to an acre than grew in this entire damned country. Real trees. With thick, soft leaves, not spikes that cut your hands to shreds if you touched them.

  He’d see the grey stonework and oak windows of Clyneswood again. The gardens. Cricket matches on the village green. Tea on the lawn on a warm, windless summer day. The vicar talking over tedious Church matters with his mother. Georgiana stealing his wallet to relieve the boredom, racing ahead of him on the steps of the rockery …

  ‘Then what, Harry?’ Furja’s question shattered the memories he’d retreated into. ‘You’ll go home? Back to England?’

  ‘Not without you.’ He was furious with himself for allowing her to read his mind so easily. ‘In the meantime we stay married.’

  ‘Why, Harry?’ she questioned, all fight ebbing from her. ‘What’s the point? You’ll have to leave soon. In the next hour or two.’

  ‘Furja, I …’

  ‘You must have learnt many things from the Turks. Things you must tell your army.’

  ‘As soon as I’ve passed on what I know, I’ll …’

  ‘Go wherever they send you and do whatever they ask of you, including killing Bedawi.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You say that now, in this tent. It will be different when you are with your people.’

  Terrified at the prospect of losing her, he reached out.

  She shrank from his touch. ‘Harry, it’s impossible for us.’

  ‘Our child?’

  ‘Our child is of noble lineage, the grandson of Aziz, the great grandson of Shalan. The tribe will look after him.’

  ‘He will be half Ferenghi,’ Harry flung the hated word at her. ‘The son of a British lieutenant, whether you and your tribe like it or not.’

  She laid her hand against his cheek. He found her tenderness unbearable after her anger.

  ‘Can’t
you see how difficult it will be for our son to live among the Bedawi with a Ferenghi for a father? One of the same Ferenghis who are riding roughshod over our people. The Ferenghis who would replace the Turks. I can try to hide him from the British. I couldn’t even begin to hide him from the assassin within the tribe unless he and I renounce you.’

  He finally understood what she and Shalan had been trying to tell him. His British blood posed a threat to the life of his wife and child. It was as simple and final as that.

  ‘You are saying I have to divorce you for our child’s sake.’

  ‘When the Turks have been defeated this war will become a war between your people and mine. You could die. I could die. Our son would have only the tribe. The tribe has the right to demand loyalty to the Bedawi, not the invader.’

  Harry rose from the rug. He was stiff, damp, chilled to the bone. His ribs ached from the kicking he’d received when the Turks had picked him up. He turned away from her so she wouldn’t see his tears.

  ‘I’ll make provision for both of you. I have money. Not only my officer’s pay, but a great deal more.’ He referred to the gambling winnings he’d banked since he’d been posted to Basra. ‘In the meantime there’s this.’ He tossed a packet of gold onto the rug at her feet. ‘I’ll give your father letters. The right to draw on my account should anything happen to me before I have time to sort out my affairs.’

  ‘Then you’ll divorce me, Harry?’

  ‘You can tell everyone we’re divorced.’

  Rising, she clung to his back for a moment, burying her face in his shoulder. He gripped her hand.

  The curtain opened. Shalan appeared. ‘You have yet to say the words, Hasan.’

  ‘I divorce thee.’

  ‘Twice more, while you look at her.’

  The tent grew misty. Harry faced Furja. He choked on the words. ‘I divorce thee … I divorce thee.’

  The curtain rose and fell. He was alone with only the sound of the rain hammering on the tent to break the silence.

  Chapter Fifteen

  India , Friday December 31st 1914

  ‘You decided against joining the tiger hunt, Mrs Mason.’

  Maud started guiltily, dropping the book she’d been looking at. Miguel D’Arbez leant against the library door, a cigar dangling from his fingertips.

  ‘You assumed you were alone in the house, so you decided to continue your perusal of my collection of Indian art?’

  Maud reddened.

  ‘Please, Mrs Mason, it’s refreshing to meet a woman who’s not afraid of her sexuality. As your host, it gratifies me to see you making yourself at home.’ He opened a cupboard. ‘Brandy or gin? If you prefer chilled wine or champagne …’

  ‘Nothing, thank you,’ she interrupted, regretting the impulse that had led her into the room.

  ‘There’s no need for embarrassment.’ He poured two brandies and handed her one. ‘I showed you those books last night because I thought they might interest you. We Europeans are, frankly, ridiculous in our attitude to sex. We thrust our young girls into marriage without preparing them for the marital bed. The result is shock, horror, and many unhappy women. The Indians are more practical. By allowing matrons to tutor brides and show them these illustrations they acquaint them with the stimuli needed for successful lovemaking. As a result, Indian girls enjoy happier wedding nights than most British and Portuguese.’ He went to the windows and lowered the blinds. ‘I hope you don’t mind the gloom, Mrs Mason, but sunlight drains the colour from the spines of the books.’

  She left her chair. He moved quickly. Before she reached the door, he turned the key.

  ‘I’ll scream for the servants.’

  ‘Am I so repulsive to you, Maud?’ Gripping her arm with his left hand, he unbuttoned the shoulder fastenings on her lawn dress with his right. It fell to her feet. He brushed his lips over her throat, sinking his teeth into the soft skin below her ear.

  She recalled his clinical comments when he’d shown her the pornographic illustrations the night before. He’d frightened her then. He was terrifying her now. But even as she clawed at his hand, the touch of his lips aroused passions that had hovered close to the surface since the night John had first made love to her.

  His eyes, dark, mocking, stared down into hers. He pulled something from his pocket. There was a flash of silver and her chemise fell to the floor, its ribbon straps cut through. Before she had time to protest, the blade travelled down the length of her body and she stood before him naked except for her stockings. He pulled a cushion from a chair, tossed it to the floor, and pushed her back until she lay before him. His hands and lips crept over every inch of her body until she could stand the frustration no longer. She tugged at his jacket. He caught her hands.

  ‘I’m going to teach you many things, Maud. First, how to make love slowly. Very slowly.’ He ran his fingertips around her left breast, suddenly pinching her nipple with a force that brought tears to her eyes. ‘Pleasures should never be hurried. We have the rest of the day. May I suggest we make it a memorable one – for both of us?’

  Basra , Thursday 28th January 1915

  Harry was asleep in the room he rented from Abdul. Despite the icy damp outside, the atmosphere was close; reeking with the acrid stench of smouldering wood and the cloying perfume of the joss sticks Abdul burned in the girls’ chambers. The scents stole into his dreams.

  He was in the desert, riding Dorset. It was dark but he carried a burning brand. He was searching for something – he didn’t know what. Furja was there. He could hear her calling his name but he couldn’t see her. Blades of pain stabbed his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. The Turks were marching towards him, a drummer boy leading the column banging … banging …

  He woke, but the banging continued. Someone was hammering on his door. His limbs ached and his eyes stung when he struggled to focus, then he realised the pain in his chest was no nightmare. The room was thick with smoke. Someone had entered while he slept, the brazier had been stoked for the night, and the blinds pulled. How many times had he told Abdul he didn’t want the servants in his room whether he was in it or not? The banging started up again, louder, more urgent.

  Picking up his mud-stained gumbaz from the floor, he threw back the blanket, pulled on the long shirt, and opened the door.

  ‘Ubbatan, it’s your companion. I think he’s in trouble.’

  ‘Think, or know?’ Harry demanded of Najaf, Abdul’s servant.

  ‘Both, Ubbatan. He’s in the dice room.’

  Harry brushed past.

  ‘Ubbatan, your abba!’

  Cursing Arab prudery, Harry turned back and pulled on his outer robe. Barefoot, he padded down the stairs into the narrow passage that led to the private gambling rooms.

  ‘The master isn’t here. If there should be trouble, he’ll blame me.’

  ‘There won’t be trouble,’ Harry assured him.

  The door to the dice room was ajar, the din deafening. Shouts and curses boiled in an ugly mixture. Harry pushed through the crowd. The dice table lay on its side. Mitkhal stood pinned against the wall, the tip of a gold-handled dagger poised beneath his chin.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Harry pitched his voice above the noise.

  ‘We have a tribeless bastard –’ the Bakhtairi Sheikh who held the dagger cleared his throat and spat in Mitkhal’s face ‘– who refuses to pay his debts. As I can’t have his money, I’ll have his miserable hide.’

  ‘How much does he owe?’

  ‘One hundred of the infidels’ sovereigns.’

  ‘Najaf, pay the man. Add the debt to my account.’

  Najaf beamed. The problem was no longer his. Abdul had left orders the Ubbatan was to be given everything he required. He hadn’t specified gambling losses of such magnitude, but he’d said “everything” and orders were orders. If the Ubbatan couldn’t pay the debt, it was his master’s sorrow and none of his doing.

  ‘Mitkhal.’ Harry jerked his head towards the door.

 
Slowly, the Bakhtairi Sheikh lowered the dagger. Mitkhal lifted his arm and wiped the spittle from his face in his sleeve. Glaring at the Sheikh, he followed Harry.

  ‘For the second time I owe you my life,’ Mitkhal muttered when they reached the passage. ‘What can I say?’

  ‘You can promise you won’t gamble with money you don’t have again.’ Harry entered his room. ‘There’s water in the jug and clean towels next to it.’ He picked up his watch and opened it. Ten-thirty. He’d arranged to meet John when his shift finished at midnight. ‘You’ve cost me an hour’s sleep.’ He threw off his abba and stretched out on the couch.

  ‘I miscounted my losses. When I opened my purse I had less than I thought.’

  ‘One of these days you’re going to lose more than you own when I’m not around. And if you gamble with jokers like that one it could cost your life. Have you lost everything?’

  ‘I have my clothes.’

  ‘Your horse?’ Harry shook his head when Mitkhal didn’t answer. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘It’s Shalan’s sister, Gutne. I want to marry her.’

  ‘Does she want to marry you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘When you were visiting the Turks and I was in the desert with Shalan.’

  ‘Does Shalan know?’

  ‘No one knows except Gutne and – Furja.’ Mitkhal was wary of speaking the name. Every time his wife was mentioned, Harry’s anger flared like a thorn fire. ‘I wanted to pay Gutne’s bride price. I had some money, but not enough. It would have taken me years to earn what I needed.’

  ‘How long will it take you now?’

  ‘You always win.’ Mitkhal slopped water from the jug into a tin basin.

  ‘I’ve had the advantage of a comprehensive education in cheating at an English public school.’ Reaching for his cigarettes, Harry shook one out of the packet.

  Mitkhal washed in silence. He knew better than to say anything while Harry was in this mood.

  ‘Have you sounded out Shalan? Gutne’s hardly a virgin bride. Furja told me the Turks took her when she was 12. After raping her, they …’

  ‘Gutne told me everything,’ Mitkhal interrupted.