Margaret Pargeter

by Sanja

  Morocco, Armel said, had been through difficult times, with many adjustments to be made since independence, but in his opinion, had done remarkably well.

  Ross could not pretend not to be interested, and listened eagerly, but it was the people rather than history which interested her most. This was probably a thing she had inherited from her father and she regretted, as she had done often, not being able to speak of him to Armel. He already knew of Ross's growing affection for the camp children, a love which they undoubtedly returned, but he occasionally laughed, to her utter mortification, when he came across her attempting to cook. He would stand, tall and dark in his snowy white burnous, and her heart would begin to race uncomfortably. He would grin tolerantly at her amateurish efforts to follow the Arabic instructions of the women around her, and offer sober if not very helpful advice. She couldn't seem to get the flavour exactly right, but sometimes, when he condescended to taste what she was trying to make, he pronounced it not too bad.

  When he was amused and forgot to be stern like this Ross felt an almost irresistible desire to respond. It actually hurt that she had to keep such a careful watch over her impulsive emotions, but since the episode with Salem the whole camp seemed to look upon her exclusively as Armel's woman, and the shyly knowing smiles of the other women often made her go pink with embarrassment. Nor did it help that Armel seemed never to notice the speculative glances they were wont to cast over her slim figure, although he must have been quite aware of what was so obviously in their minds.

  As well as these other pursuits he liked to spend an hour each day over her French. He made her read from one of the few French novels he had in his tent and corrected her pronounciation as she went along. Her French, he teased, was atrocious, but after the first few days he told her she had a natural ability and was doing well.

  'In a little while, if you maintain the same standard, you will be very proficient, Rosalind.'

  While his praise pleased her she could not help wondering why he did not consider Arabic to be more important, but for some reason he refused to teach her this, although it was something she suspected he could have done fairly easily—if he chose. All she knew was the few words she had picked up around the camp and from Jamila.

  When one day she asked him about it again, he merely shrugged and replied, 'French you will find useful wherever you go, but you may never wish to return to Morocco.'

  'Well, it's not so very important, is it?' If he could hurt then she could try to, although she doubted she would ever have the power to do this to him. That he could so easily wound her she kept to herself. He was lordly enough without adding to his arrogance. To know that he could not really contemplate keeping her here for ever should be enough.

  Strangely, as the days slipped past, Ross found herself thinking hardly at all of life beyond the oasis. She was wise enough to suspect that if Freddy had really tried to find her he could have done—that was if he was actually free to do so. Armel had said he was, and somehow, while she assured herself she had no reason to take Armel's word, about this she felt instinctively she could trust him. If Freddy had still been in the hands of the desert nomad, she knew Armel would have told her. Sparing her pain was not something Armel indulged in; he could, when he liked, be quite ruthless and cruel, for all his more tolerant attitude towards her generally. What frightened Ross now more than Freddy's apparent desertion was the way in which her mind seemed to be closing completely against the outside world.

  Cousin Cynthia was fast fading, like an unpleasant dream, with Armel ben Yussef becoming the dominating factor in her life as the desert exercised its old inscrutable charm over her. She did not want to leave. There was a warmth about these people she knew she would miss. Generously they had taken her to their hearts as if, without having to be told, they knew she had been starved of any real affection. Their way of life, Ross was aware, many would find primitive, but to her its very simplicity was indescribably beautiful—as was indeed the whole of that rugged country. The bare landscape no longer filled her with apprehension, the limitless miles of sand had long since ceased to seem empty. Now they provided innumerable subjects for her clever fingers to sketch, and the air was so clear she often wished for an easel and brushes so that she might paint the wonderfully vivid colours. Armel had given her a supply of paper and charcoal, but so far, apart from his first, he had made no comment.

  But it was the moonlight over the desert which Ross had come to love most, when the oasis and sands were drenched in the palely glowing light and the silence was so deep that even a small sound like a heartbeat was magnified out of all proportion. When she walked with Armel on such magic evenings she often felt they were the only two people in the world, and that everything else ceased to matter. Not even his arms and his hard, bruising kisses which taunted and never satisfied seemed able to spoil the illusion.

  Apart from the French lessons, which were strictly by invitation, she never went to his tent, although she occasionally felt curious about the many long hours he spent there himself. Each evening he dined with her in her own quarters, but never again did he sleep in the outer room. About an hour after dinner he would leave her. Then Ross would get to her feet and wander over the thickly woven rugs which covered the floor, her body possessed of a great longing she could put no name to. It was at these times she was forced to think again about escaping, before she lost control and could not subdue her tumultuous feelings. The future without him stretched bleakly enough without the possible humiliation of that.

  So fearful was she of the future that when Jamila came to tell her, one afternoon, of some visitors who had arrived she could only stare at her in blank dismay. The first thought to come to her head was that it was Freddy at last, but instead of pleasure she felt nothing but dread. She would have to go with him. There was no excuse to linger at the oasis any longer. Armel might have recendy paid her a great deal of attention, but the feeling that smouldered between them was probably only in her imagination. He had threatened, but apart from sticking to his refusal to help her get away, he appeared to have forgotten everything else. There was just his mocking goodnight salute, otherwise he never touched her.

  That Jamila was disappointed because Ross made no immediate reply was easy to see. 'They are a troupe of dancers, mademoiselle,' she went on eagerly. 'Berber dancers, who will stay until tomorrow and have agreed to entertain us tonight. Already we are preparing a feast. Sidi Armel has graciously given his permission and there will be much to enjoy.'

  'A dancing team?' Ross felt her legs so suddenly weak she was forced to sit down. So this was the cause of the girl's excitement 1 'I'm sorry, Jamila,' she smiled, 'I didn't understand. I thought. ..'

  She broke off, biting her lip warily, not wishing Armel to hear of her dismay when she had thought it might be her half-brother.

  But she had reckoned without Jamila's sharp wits. 'You thought it was someone coming to fetch you away?' she queried, her smile widening at Ross's white cheeks.

  'It could have been,' Ross, to her despair, heard herself floundering nervously.

  'And you don't wish to leave—er—us?' Jamila laughed, adding the last word so obviously that Ross was left in no doubt that she had really been going to say Sidi Armel.

  'Yes,' Ross spoke swiftly herself. 'That is—I mean, I will be very sorry to leave you, as you must know, but neither do I wish to outstay my welcome.'

  'Of course not, mademoiselle,' Jamila agreed, keeping her eyes, in which glinted a little mischief, downcast.

  'The dancers?' Ross again spoke quickly. 'You seem very excited about them. Are they so good?'

  'Oh, yes,' instantly diverted, Jamila enthused. 'They are not just any team, mademoiselle. They do much, what is it you call it, professional dancing, but always they love to return to the oasis.'

  'The oasis?'

  'Any oasis, mademoiselle, when they tire of the big city, the oases and the great asbahs of the north and south. There they will stay for days, dancing and feasting. The
re is much happiness and making love.'

  In spite of herself Ross felt her cheeks grow hot. These people had a conviction that one was bound irrevocably with the other. There was nothing sordid or suggestive about their simple beliefs. It was a basic need, like music in their blood, which sought only the simplicity of outward expression. They had a very natural dignity, but would never understand the Western tendency to hide emotions behind an artificially indifferent front. When they wanted to cry they did, and when they felt like dancing and making love they did just that, with all the natural upretentiousness that mny other people had almost forgotten. Nor did the outcome of such normal reactions appear to worry them unduly. It might not always be wise, but another addition to a family seemed never to be stinted of love, whatever else it might be deprived of.

  She was not sure about Armel's own views. He had, more than once, spoken derisively of her inhibitions, but then hadn't he referred to her supposedly loose behaviour with an equal amount of scorn? Uncertainly Ross clenched her clammy hands together. Would any girl ever know where she stood with a man like that?

  Yet it was this very mystery of the East, this insidious enticement of the senses, that proved to Ross she must be wary. 'I will stay in my tent, of course,' she said at last. 'Apart from anything else it would perhaps be wiser. Better that no one should know I am here.'

  Jamila, in the throes of going through Ross's wardrobe, turned with an anxious frown. 'But Sidi Armel sent me specially to tell you to be ready. I am to help you. He will be far from pleased if you do not come.'

  Ross, too, frowned. Jamila's French, like her own, seemed to improve daily, although Ross suspected it had been quite good all along. Jamila chatted away, just so long as she wasn't asked too many questions, when she was apt to shut up like a clam. 'You haven't misunderstood? You are sure he wants me?' she asked hesitantly.

  'I am very sure of that!' Jamila smiled, but a second later, when Ross glanced sharply at her sober face, she could find nothing to endorse the impression that Jamila's sentence could, quite easily, contain another meaning !

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Later, after Ross had rested, Jamila returned and helped her to dress. For a while Ross had continued to protest against Jamila assisting her in this way, as it wasn't a habit she wanted to cultivate. Cousin Cynthia would probably laugh at the very idea of it and accuse Ross scornfully of giving herself airs. Apart from this Ross considered herself too practical to need such help from anyone. She did sometimes wistfully admit to herself that it could be oddly comforting to be fussed over and spoilt a little.

  This evening she wore a jellaba of thin white silk, and a sleeveless tunic, woven with a gold thread. She was used to such outfits by now and found them comfortable, yet she often felt they were too seductive and occasionally longed for the cool formality of a simple dress. Jamila brushed her long fair hair until it shone and streamed like a cloud of moonbeams over her shoulders. Ross, nervous in case it made her appear too abandoned, asked Jamila to catch it at her nape with a silver bow. She had no make-up, nor did her flawless, petal-soft skin seem to need any, but for once she allowed Jamila to apply a very little of the various powders and dyes she used. It couldn't, Ross thought, do any harm, and might give her some badly needed self-confidence as well as pleasing Jamila. She was surprised that the result pleased her too. The girl was really quite clever in the way she accentuated the lovely blue colour of Ross's eyes and smoothed a little clear pink into her fine, pale cheekbones.

  It was growing dark before Jamila was quite satisfied with her handiwork and she led Ross to the other side of the oasis.

  Ross could see, immediately they approached the leaping fires, that this must indeed be a festive occasion and that the members of the dancing troupe were honoured guests. Armel might be using their presence as an excuse to give his

  people a party but, whatever the reason, the visitors were being accorded true Moroccan hospitality. Many campfires burnt brightly where there was usually just one, and people were gathered in small, gay groups around them. The air was redolent with the smell of good cooking which mingled strangely with the more exotic perfumes of the women. It was at the women that Ross looked first. Somehow she had expected them to be dressed in the flimsy garments she had seen in pictures of dancers of the East, but these women were clothed as circumspectly as herself, their caftans of various colours covering whatever they might be wearing underneath. Their only concession might have been in the numerous straps of fancy beads and bangles they wore, the jewelled ankle decorations which jingled enticingly each time they moved their feet.

  Jamila took her straight to Armel's side, although Ross would rather have stayed on the edge of the crowd. Sitting next to him she felt the focus of all eyes, the many interested glances which were cast in her direction. Eventually, as she gathered more courage, she lifted her shining head and did a little gazing herself.

  'That's better,' she heard Armel say lightly. 'For a moment I thought it was going to prove too much.'

  Ross started. He had been engaged in conversation with his head man and she had thought he had not noticed her arrival. Now, he took hold of her arm and introduced her smilingly to several of the visitors as a friend from England who was touring the desert with her brother. It surprised Ross that no one appeared to wonder where this brother was, or to doubt he wasn't around somewhere. Bitterly she queried why Armel had chosen to mention Freddy at all. It couldn't be that he sought to provide a note of respectability. He wouldn't care what construction anyone put on their relationship ! It must simply be that he did not intend these people to imagine she needed rescuing.

  People did not, she realised, question Sidi Armel ben Yussef's motives at all. He was arrogant and proud and when he gave orders he expected to be obeyed. When he made a statement he had to be believed. How did he do it? Ross could have said scornfully by the sheer weight of his dominant personality, but she knew it was more than that.

  Not at all satisfied with her rather negative conclusions, she glanced again around the attractive faces of the women. Was one of them perhaps Armel's special friend? Some of them were beautiful with their golden skins and slender, seductive bodies and dark, melting eyes. They seemed to know him well, and the man who appeared to be their leader seemed very eager to talk to him. By the tone of Armel's voice and the interest in his eyes, Ross guessed he was asking the man a number of questions and, not for the first time, she regretted her inability to understand Arabic.

  'Why don't you speak French?' she asked Armel crossly ip English, when at last he turned away.

  'Ismail is happier with Arabic,' Armel said briefly, gazing narrowly down at her, 'and he, too, is a guest.'

  Ross flushed, not appreciating a snub he made little attempt to cover up. 'I'm sorry,' she rejoined coolly, 'I didn't realise. Jamila said they had just stopped by, so to speak.'

  His slight smile still rebuked her. 'Don't you ever have unexpected visitors to your home, mademoiselle} Don't you make them as welcome as those you formally invite?'

  Unhappily Ross glanced away from him. He wouldn't know she had had little recent experience of this. When her parents had been alive she could remember faintly how they had entertained a lot. Since then she had lost touch with that kind of family life. But in criticising Armel's manner with his friends she had been impertinent, and her heart sank as she realised he might justifiably be annoyed with her all evening.

  'I'm sorry,' she murmured, her voice husky.

  Armel sighed, his hand suddenly hard on her bare, slender wrist. 'I shouldn't have reminded you of your home. Now you begin to think of the quickest way to get there, but I should advise you to put it from your mind as such thoughts of it will not remain there much longer. Come, you must enjoy this evening, when I intend to show you what real hospitality is like. You look lovely enough to charm a thousand guests, ma chere, as well as myself. And I, cherie, intend to enjoy myself too.'

  Ross's throat tightened at his words, and her pulse jerked a
s his lean fingers caught her wrist with an even greater pressure. If his tone had not been so threatening, her senses might not have churned so madly and she might have thought of something brighter to say. 'Did these people come on camels?' she whispered, trembling, not really curious.

  Amusement quirked his firm lips, even while his eyes smouldered over her, regardless of the interested glances cast in their direction. 'No,' he answered, solemnly enough, 'They have horses. Occasionally, away from the desert, they have their own vehicles. Camels, you see, are not used nearly so generally as they used to be in these districts. But the Sahara, Rosalind, is still the largest desert on earth, with an area of some three million square miles, and there are places where the camel is still perhaps the most practical type of transport as they can go a long time without water.'

  'I see .. .'

  'No, you don't. Nor will you until you have lived here for some years. One day, if you are really interested, I might take you deep into the Sahara. It isn't all a desert of sand, you know. But come, this is neither the time or place to explain such things. If you don't have something to eat, long before the evening is over you will be feeling faint.'

  Ross was never to forget that night. The food was simple but more varied than usual. After the harira there was chicken and pigeons, prepared in different ways with saffron and honey and butter. There was mutton and rice, spiced to a delectable flavour by the cook's imagination. There were enormous, stuffed flaky pastries, baked by throwing small pellets of dough on the large metal griddles until the whole was covered with a thin film of crust. After it was baked it was removed and stuffed with whatever one chose. With all this they drank rose wines from the vineyards south of Casablanca and afterwards ate the small, sugared almond cakes and drank refreshing mint tea.