City of Jasmine

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  He shook his head. “No. Too many years trying to please the old man and coming up desperately short. It was rather freeing to let them all think I was dead and not have the bother anymore. Now I only worry about disappointing myself.” He paused still smoking thoughtfully. “Were they awful to you? After I ‘died,’ I mean?”

  “Yes, frightful, actually. They opposed the annuity you’d arranged for me and questioned every detail about the funeral itself. We even quarrelled about the music.”

  “Really? Who won?”

  “I did,” I told him with noticeable satisfaction. “I insisted upon Palestrina with a lovely bit of Purcell to finish.”

  A slow smile curved his mouth. “Good girl.” Wordlessly, he handed me the mouthpiece of the pipe and I took a puff. I coughed a little—this mixture was stronger than the one Daoud had favoured. But the second puff was smoother, and by the fourth, I felt nothing but silken smoke slipping down my throat. I handed it back as my head buzzed.

  “You needn’t look quite so pleased,” I told him. “I gave way about the monument. There’s a bloody great pile of stone with your name on it in a churchyard in Norfolk.”

  “But no cherubs,” he pleaded. “Please tell me you didn’t let them have cherubs.”

  “Enormous fat ones with wreaths of stone roses and a particularly gruesome dove that looks as if it might have a wasting disease. It really is the most revoltingly sentimental thing I’ve ever seen.” I paused. “But I had an inscription of my own carved into the back.”

  There was a moment where he said nothing, as if weighing whether he dared ask. But he put aside the pipe and held my gaze levelly with his own.

  “What does it say? Not some bloody Psalm, I hope.” He attempted a light tone, but there was an edge of something sharper there as he must have steeled himself.

  “It says, ‘We hope our sons will die like English gentlemen.’” Nine words, but each one a laceration to a boy who’d grown up waiting for the Lost Boys to walk the plank and make good ends.

  He mouthed a word and looked away. When he looked back, he had mastered himself. “Well done,” he said, the edge still in his voice. “I thought you might try to break my heart a little.”

  “Only a little,” I said, venturing a small smile. “It’s funny. When I was sailing home from China, I always thought if I ever saw you again, I’d want to torture you, to pay you back pain for pain what you inflicted on me.”

  “And now?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I’ve lost the habit of hating you. At first, I couldn’t because you were dead and it’s so difficult to hate the dead. So I tucked it away and promised myself I’d take it out for a good airing later. I thought after a proper amount of time had passed, I could indulge myself and hate you lavishly. But there was war work, and then I discovered flying—the only thing I was really good at.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said mildly as he picked up the pipe again. “I think you could probably do just about anything you set your mind to.”

  It took me a moment to realise he had just paid me a compliment, but the camaraderie between us was so new, I didn’t dare to draw attention to it. After another few breaths of pipe smoke I was floating a little, wrapped in a velvety warmth that seemed to come from within my own blood.

  “Flying is the only thing I’m good at,” I repeated. “Well, that and posing for those wretched photographs. I loathe dealing with sponsors. Nothing but grabby hands and silly slogans—as if it makes the slightest bit of difference which brand of tea biscuits I buy. But somehow people think it’s important, and I can only afford to fly if I have sponsors, so it all gets muddled up somehow. But it’s that sort of blurry dishonesty I loathe. I tell people I use things and so they go and buy them, but I hate myself for it. And I hate them for believing it.”

  “So what would you do if you chucked it all?”

  I shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest. This trip will be over soon. We’ve only the Caspian left. That will finish us, provided the Jolly Roger makes it that long. And then it’s back to England to find something new.”

  He had smoked more than I had and his voice sounded drowsy. “Is the Jolly Roger so elderly?”

  I smiled. “She’s on her last legs, poor lamb. She flew like a bomb in the war, and I’ve asked so much of her. But she’s held up beautifully thanks to Wally. If I can coax one last big flight out of her, she’ll have earned a happy retirement.”

  “And what becomes of you after that?”

  “I haven’t thought of it. I haven’t thought beyond this trip. It helps keep the nerves at bay, you know. If I think too hard about a particular bill or what I’ll have to do next, I can’t sleep for the worry. So, I put it all aside in a neat little box and tell myself I’ll take it out when the time comes and worry over it then.”

  “Does that work?”

  “Of course not. I fret myself to ribbons, anyway. But it keeps me from running mad all the time.” I paused. “But I think I’d like to do something different, something nice and clean, where I won’t have to pose for photographs or tell lies about soap flakes. And I want the same for you. Whatever trouble you’ve been in, it’s never too late for you to go straight, Gabriel. It’s never too late to be what you might have been.”

  His face was thoughtful as he pulled on the pipe but he said nothing.

  He rose, and I noticed for the first time that he had done so without wincing. The constant sitting on the ground was playing hell with my knees, but Gabriel was sinuous as a cat.

  “Your back must be healing up,” I told him. “You’re not making those awful old man noises anymore when you move.”

  He rolled his shoulders experimentally. “Healing, yes, but it itches like the devil. The healer fellow, Faiz, gave me more salve, but I haven’t bothered to put it on.”

  “Why are men always so perfectly stupid when it comes to taking care of themselves?” I demanded of no one in particular. “Take off your robe and turn around.”

  “Yes, Nanny,” he said with a smile that managed to be meek and mocking at the same time. He handed over the tin of salve and stripped off his robe. He had dressed like a Bedouin since our arrival, wearing the long loose robe they favoured. I don’t know what their men wore underneath, but he had on a slim pair of trousers, and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed. He dropped his robe to the ground and turned to show me his back. The lash marks were still there, the slashes freshly pink against the olive flesh. But they had closed up and were healing nicely. He would scar, but not deeply.

  I scooped up a bit of salve and began to work it gently into the marks. He sucked in his breath sharply, the sleek muscles jumping under the skin of his back.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” he said in a strangled voice. “Just get it over with.”

  I sighed. “I know you’re upset that I insisted on going after the Cross. And I know you blame me for everything that’s happened. And you’re quite right. I was thoughtless and I didn’t consider the consequences properly. But I want you to know I am sorry you were hurt. It was never my intention.”

  “I know that. Careful, pet,” he said with a wince. “That one’s deep.”

  I softened my touch and went on. “And I want you to know I understand. I’ve had a lot of time to think out here, nothing but time,” I added wryly, thinking of my long hours staring at the camels. “And I’ve realised what I ought to have seen before. Marriage frightened you. We rushed off into it, and I don’t know if you were already up to nefarious deeds or if that came later, but it all happened so fast—the elopement and then the expedition to China. I think it only came home to roost then that you had to be responsible for me. And I suppose it scared you terribly. But I don’t blame you anymore. It isn’t your fault.”

  A stillness came over him, stiffening his muscles.

 
“It’s not my fault that I’m a coward?”

  “No. Some men just don’t handle responsibility well. They break under the pressure of it. They simply can’t bear having to take care of another person. And it makes perfect sense in your case considering your willingness to turn to crime. Clearly your character is just lacking somehow. It’s actually quite understandable when you think about it like that.”

  He said nothing and I finished rubbing the salve into his back. “There, is that better?”

  “Quite,” he said, biting off the syllable as if it tasted bitter in his mouth.

  “Now, Gabriel, you’re not sore, are you? Because of what I said? I’m trying to show you I understand what you were going through. And I’m not angry at you anymore because it doesn’t make sense to be angry at someone for something they can’t help. It’s like being angry with a person because they’re left-handed or tone deaf. It’s simply who you are.”

  He turned, his eyes glittering oddly in the lamplight. “Thank you for that. Now, if you’re finished eviscerating my character, put out the lamp. I’d like to go to sleep.”

  “Oh, don’t take it like that,” I said, pleading only a little. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was trying to make friends again.”

  He stood up and went to where the lamp hung and took it down. “I said, put out the lamp.” Then with great care he hurled it outside the tent. I heard it strike a rock, shattering into pieces and leaving us in blackness. Without another word he threw himself down onto his pallet and lay there, simmering with rage.

  I rose and went to the flap of the tent, pushing it back. High above us the moon hung like a baroque pearl, just beginning to wane, its edges blurred by the fronds of the palm trees. The moonlight softened the scene below, lending the sleeping tents a sort of glamour. “It looks like a picture from a fairy tale,” I said, almost to myself. “Something out of Arabian Nights.”

  Gabriel got up and gripped my shoulders, his fingers insistent. “Goddamn it, Evie, when will you grow up? Not everything is a fairy tale, you know. Sometimes life is just what it is, brutal and hard and dangerous. And it’s real, Evie. It’s real, and so am I,” he repeated, digging his fingers in harder.

  And before I knew what he intended, he bent his head to mine. I didn’t fight him. I didn’t want to. He was the one who broke the kiss, pulling my hands out of his hair and pushing me away. The kiss hadn’t been gentle, but the gesture was when he shoved me back, rocking me on my heels. He pushed his hands through his hair and I could see they were shaking.

  “I’ll apologise for that in the morning,” he said, his voice rough.

  “Don’t bother,” I told him lightly. “After all, we are still married. Still, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll sleep on my side of the tent tonight.”

  I crawled into my pallet, wrapping my arms hard around my body to stop the trembling. He stepped through the flap and into the desert air, blocking the soft moonlight with his silhouette. I could smell the scent of his cigarettes, acrid and sharp after the soft seduction of the nargileh, and he must have smoked several, one after the other, waiting for me to fall asleep. I heard him move towards the tent, and I closed my eyes tightly. I didn’t fool him; I was sure of it. But it was the excuse we both needed not to look at each other. “As long as I live, I will never understand men,” I murmured to myself.

  * * *

  The next day, a messenger arrived and spent some time closeted with the men before Sheikh Hamid and Gabriel emerged from the tent, grim-faced and resolute.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Hamid busied himself giving orders while Gabriel brought me up to speed. “There has been an attack. One of Hamid’s scouts found an injured traveller in the desert and he’s sent a pair of warriors back with the scout to fetch him. Hamid wants to question him about what he’s seen.”

  Just then, a faint commotion stirred at the edge of the village. The warriors had returned, each of them carrying someone pillion. The first dismounted and I caught a glimpse of the slender youth mounted behind him.

  “Rashid!” I hurried forward, wholly delighted to see him and just as mystified.

  He sprang from the camel to make a graceful gesture of welcome. “Greetings, sitt.”

  “Rashid, what on earth are you doing out here?”

  “I told you I would return to my tribe,” he told me with a broad grin. “Sheikh Hamid is my uncle by marriage.”

  “Uncle by marriage?” At that moment Sheikha Aysha stepped forward and greeted Rashid warmly, offering him water. He drank deeply and as he did, Aysha nodded towards me.

  “My nephew, sitt, the son of my sister.”

  He finished drinking, wiping his mouth across his sleeve. “You like the desert, sitt?”

  “It’s magnificent,” I told him truthfully. “Were you the scout who found the injured traveller?”

  He puffed his slim chest out. “Yes, sitt. I am the best scout in the eastern desert. I have information for my uncle, and I bring him this pitiful man,” he said with a nod to the second camel.

  A group of Bedu had come forward to lift the unconscious man from the camel, but even before they turned him over, I knew him.

  “Herr Doktor!” I cried.

  He did not hear me. He was still senseless, a dead weight in the arms of his rescuers, but they coped manfully, lifting him with all the gentleness they could muster. His pink complexion was blotched red and white from too much exposure to the sun, and his clothes were filthy, but none of that mattered compared to the horror I felt when they shifted and his arm fell free...the sleeve drenched in blood.

  * * *

  They put up a small tent for him and I stayed outside while Faiz, the healer, attended him. Faiz was as unlikely a healer as any I could imagine. He was enormous—tall and with a belly so round he looked like Sheikh Hamid’s favourite naga. His hands were the size of two of mine together, but with the delicate touch of a child. His face was adorned with blue tattoos that might have given him a menacing air were it not for the broad smile that always wreathed his face.

  I went to the little German and held his hand.

  “He won’t know you’re there,” Gabriel said flatly. “He’s quite unconscious.”

  “I don’t care,” I snapped. “He ought to have someone here who cares whether he lives or dies.”

  Gabriel shrugged. Faiz turned to Gabriel, asking a series of questions in Arabic.

  Gabriel answered him quietly, then reached into his robes and took out his medical kit. Faiz peered into it thoughtfully before pointing to something in the kit and giving Gabriel instructions. He spoke calmly and Gabriel asked a question or two before they seemed to settle something between them. To my astonishment, Faiz stepped aside and folded his arms over his belly, smiling benignly.

  “What’s he doing?” I demanded of Gabriel. “Surely he won’t just let the old fellow die.”

  Just then, the German’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around, his eyes rolling a moment until they focused on my face.

  “Hello, Herr Doktor.”

  “Frau Starke,” he said faintly. “I am glad to see you.”

  But his smile did not reach his eyes, and he moved his injured arm fitfully.

  “I’m sorry you were hurt,” I told him.

  Herr Doktor gave me a sad smile. “I do not blame you. It was not gallant to leave my friends in such a place.”

  “Then why did you?” Gabriel demanded.

  I flapped a hand at him. “Hush. There’s no call to be rude when the poor man is wounded.” I turned back to Schickfuss. “Who did this to you?”

  He nodded his head, his white hair standing on end. “Daoud. Not such a nice fellow, I think,” he said with a gallant attempt at a joke. “He shot me.” He made a vague gesture towards his wounded arm, and I peeled back the filthy remna
nts of his shirt to find a neat hole on one side and a mess of blood and splintered bone and torn muscle on the other.

  “Heavens, it’s a good thing he’s got rotten aim,” I said with an attempt at lightness. “If that bullet had hit you anywhere important you might be in real trouble instead of just a spot of inconvenience.”

  He gave me another of his sad smiles. “This is a consolation? I think it is better not to be shot at all, Frau Starke.” He attempted to laugh at his little joke, but he was ghastly pale and the wound did look unpleasant. From the pile of soiled rags on the ground it was clear he’d bled rather a lot, and when he put his hand in mine, it shook.

  Gabriel moved forward, his medical kit in his hands. He opened it and inside was a tidy array of miniature surgical tools.

  Swiftly, he prepared a hypodermic syringe. It was a lethal-looking thing, and I had no idea what it was filled with. Neither did Herr Doktor, but when he turned his rheumy old eyes on Gabriel, he merely smiled.

  Gabriel paused. “Shall I go on or don’t you trust me?”

  The old man managed a laugh. “It is rather late for that, mein herr. Do what you must. God will take care of the rest.”

  “God doesn’t bloody care,” Gabriel said softly, but he went ahead, sliding the needle into the shoulder and slowly depressing the plunger as Herr Doktor let out a soft exhalation. Then, with perfect nonchalance, Gabriel took out a bottle of antiseptic and swabbed out the wound, then fished a scalpel from his kit. He did not even hesitate before plunging it into the wound, and within a moment, it emerged with a bullet perched neatly on the tip. He flicked it to the corner of the tent then proceeded to stitch up the old fellow, while Faiz watched in approval.

  There was something ghoulish about Gabriel’s unnatural calm, and I was still put out that Faiz hadn’t lifted a finger to help. Gabriel gave Herr Doktor enough morphine to knock out an elephant, and proceeded to wash his hands while chatting calmly with Faiz. I made certain Schickfuss was resting comfortably before I turned on my heel and left. I went into the tent and helped myself to a healthy swallow of Gabriel’s whisky. I washed my face and hands and combed my hair before I ventured out again.