Footprints in the Desert

by Maha Akhtar

  “Dash it!” he muttered. From his breast pocket he pulled out a small leather pouch from which he took out what looked to Fatmeh like a crotchet needle. Charles put his arms through the bars of gate, held the lock in one hand and with the instrument poked around until he heard a click. He pulled off the lock, slid back the bolt, and the gate creaked loudly on unoiled hinges. With a little help from Charles, it finally swung open.

  “Oh!” Fatmeh said as she stepped across the threshold. A lush green lawn surrounded by woods stretched out toward a lake, which was fed by a stream that emerged from the earth. Off to the right, tucked away on the top of a small hill, was a small ancient Egyptian temple in white stone that was barely visible, hidden behind the rich foliage of the palm trees that stood like sentinels surrounding it.

  Charles smiled at Fatmeh’s expression of awe. He offered his hand and drew her to him.

  “Charles!” Fatmeh pointed at a couple of peacocks that emerged from the woods to come drink at the lake. “Oh! They are beautiful.”

  “And there … scarlet ibis,” Charles pointed out.

  “Charles, where are we?” Fatmeh asked.

  “These are part of the gardens of the Gezira Sporting Club,” he told her. “And this is known as the exotic lake … shall we stroll around? You never know what else you might see.”

  And indeed they did. Pink flamingoes stood on one leg around the lake, mingling with the ibis and the peacocks, while multicolored parrots of all shapes and sizes cawed from the trees.

  Slowly they made their way around the lake, walking up a small pathway that led through the woods to the temple. Charles squeezed Fatmeh’s hand and smiled excitedly at her. He still had his big surprise and he was hoping she would enjoy it. They came to a clearing and there, sitting in the middle, was the small temple they had seen, with its own little earth-fed freshwater pond and two stone sphinxes guarding the temple entrance, along with two obelisks decorated with gold hieroglyphics on either side.

  Off to one side of the temple, there was a small red and white striped desert tent, billowing gently in the breeze.

  “What?” Fatmeh exclaimed, shocked.

  “This way, please, Madame,” Charles said, smiling.

  Forgetting about her foot, Fatmeh took a step and winced with the pain.

  “Fatmeh!” Charles said. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing … really.” She smiled, tears of pain filling her eyes.

  “It’s your foot, isn’t it,” Charles said. “I knew it wasn’t right.”

  “I’m fine … it’s nothing but a little muscle pull … I am sure of it,” she reassured him. “Now show me what’s inside the tent,” she urged, trying to take his mind off her foot.

  “All right,” he agreed, reluctantly.

  The tent was an oasis of color. It was lined in pink and orange and red silk and velvet hangings with gold tasseled fringes. Old Moorish lamps lit the interior softly, throwing shadows on the cornucopia of cushions in all shapes and sizes that were strewn all over the tent. A colorful handmade carpet covered the floor. In the middle was a low table, laden with food. Off to the side was a silver ice bucket that had a bottle of wine sticking out from beneath a white starched linen napkin.

  “This is exquisite!” Fatmeh gasped. “I feel like I’m in the middle of One Thousand and One Nights.”

  While Charles struggled with the cork on the wine bottle, Fatmeh pulled her dress just over her ankle and gulped. Clearly she had done much more than twist her foot when she fell. Her ankle was completely swollen and Fatmeh knew that if she took off her shoe, she would never get it back on. Reclining comfortably as she was, it wasn’t doing more than throbbing, with the occasional twinge of pain if she moved in a certain way. Quickly, she covered it up just as Charles sat down in front of her.

  “Surprised?” he asked.

  Fatmeh smiled shyly in response.

  “A walk in those gardens,” she pointed to the outside, “would have been more than enough.”

  “Well … I wanted to take you out for dinner, too.”

  “Thank you.”

  He gazed at her, searching her face that glowed softly in the candlelight. He noticed her eyes, her mouth, her hair, her neck …

  “Fatmeh,” he whispered, “you’ve never been more beautiful to me than you are now in this moment.”

  Fatmeh’s heart began to pound. She didn’t know how to respond or what to say. She smiled and put her hand over his, holding it tightly.

  “Well …” He cleared his throat and poured himself a glass of wine. “Would you like to try some? It’s quite delicious.”

  “I’ve never had any,” she admitted.

  “Of course, if you feel awkward …”

  “No, no, I’d like to try. Madame Yvonne always has a little gin in her lime juice, and God hasn’t rained his wrath down on her,” she joked.

  Slowly, Fatmeh put the wine glass to her lips and took a sip.

  Charles stared at her. “Well?”

  Fatmeh smiled. “Mmmm, it’s very good!”

  He smiled back, pleased.

  Suddenly, there was a scuffling noise outside. Fatmeh stopped, her heart in her mouth. Charles started to his feet. There was more scuffling. Charles put his index finger to his lips. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

  “No! Charles! Don’t go!” she caught his hand. “We don’t know who they are or how many … they could kill you.”

  “Fatmeh, I’ll go take a quick look. I’ll be right back,” he caressed the side of her face. “Don’t worry.”

  “Charles! What if it’s my husband? What if he followed us?”

  “Let me go and look,” he deftly unwound her fingers from his wrist. He knelt and kissed her forehead. He took his gun out of its holster.

  Fatmeh sat back. She was petrified.

  Suddenly, a series of loud gunshots cracked through the tranquility of the garden, followed by the sound of physical fighting.

  Fatmeh covered her ears, her heart pounding.

  The flap of the tent opened. Charles appeared, his suit muddied and dusty, his hair ruffled, his face covered in dirt and a small cut near his lip.

  “Charles!”

  “We need to leave immediately.”

  Fatmeh hobbled to her feet. Charles pulled a knife out of the waist of his pants and ripped an opening in the side of the tent. With Fatmeh in his arms, he ran all the way back to the car.

  He put Fatmeh in the passenger seat and jumped in. In the rearview mirror he saw two figures come running across the bridge and jump onto motorcycles.

  Charles slammed the car in gear and stepped on the accelerator.

  “Hold on, Fatmeh.”

  The car screeched around the corner and they sped along the wide boulevard of the new French quarter, zigzagging between the slower horse carriages and other traffic.

  Charles switched gears and revved the engine, pushing the car to go faster. The motorcycles kept up.

  As they went over a small bridge, Charles swerved into a tiny parallel lane and screeched to a halt. Looking up, they both saw the two motorcycles pass them, disappearing down the road.

  “Fatmeh … are you all right?” He took her hand in his. “I’m so sorry.”

  Fatmeh nodded but she looked scared and her eyes filled with tears.

  “I’ll take you home,” Charles said gently.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was just past eight o’clock in the morning when Fatmeh heard the back door in the kitchen open with a small click. Rabih? She wondered. It was awfully early for him to be here. Usually he didn’t come in until 9:30 or so. She got up with some difficulty, reached for her crutches, and hobbled to the kitchen. She pulled the curtain apart with one crutch and saw Rabih taking all of his paint boxes and tools out of a cupboard.

  “Rabih!” Fatmeh called to him. “Sabah al-khair!”

  Rabih whipped around when he heard her.

  “Marhaba ya, Fatmeh!” he greeted her with a shy smile. “What are you doi
ng up so early?”

  Fatmeh limped in so he could see her crutches and her bandaged foot.

  “Ya Allah, Fatmeh!” he cried, coming over immediately. “Shoo hayda? What’s all this?”

  “Remember the night Rania and Noura escorted me to the Midan Al-Hussein?”

  Rabih nodded.

  “I was getting out of a car that night and slipped,” she told him.

  “Come on now! You shouldn’t be on your feet. You need to keep this foot elevated.” He took her arm and helped her into the kitchen.

  “What are you doing here so early?” she asked him, as he helped her sit down in a chair.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he replied.

  “Neither could I,” Fatmeh said, “but that’s because I’m in pain. So I decided to come down here and write. It’s quiet this time of morning. Even the birds are quiet, it seems.”

  Rabih smiled.

  “What’s your excuse?” she asked.

  He shrugged.

  “So is the foot broken?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “No, thank Allah, just a bad sprain.”

  “So how long do you have to be on crutches?”

  “Oh, about six weeks my father says.”

  “Does your father know yet that you have moved out?” Rabih asked.

  “I had to tell him,” Fatmeh nodded. “He wondered why Walid was not with me when I went to get my foot bandaged.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Better than I expected,” Fatmeh sighed. “He’s, of course, hoping that I will go back to Walid in a few weeks …”

  “And you?”

  “I don’t know, Rabih.” Fatmeh took a deep breath. “It’s all so confusing.”

  Rabih nodded.

  “I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.”

  “So do I,” he admitted.

  There was a momentary pause in the conversation.

  “It’s to do with Rania, isn’t it?” Fatmeh asked.

  Rabih nodded.

  “Can I help?” Fatmeh asked.

  “I don’t know what happened, Fatmeh,” Rabih said, putting his head on his hands. “It’s as if she can’t make up her mind … one minute she’s smiling at me and the next pretending as though I don’t exist.”

  “I think she got scared,” Fatmeh said.

  “Scared …” Rabih frowned. “Of what?”

  “Not of you, Rabih,” Fatmeh explained, “of herself and the feelings she has for you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Rania’s confused,” Fatmeh said. “She had the rug pulled out from under her not that long ago and she’s had to build herself back up, and do it alone … it’s not that easy.

  “She’s still in that awkward place between life’s stages … she’s not in the old one and she’s still struggling to get to the new one … but she will get there, of that I am sure.”

  There was a pause.

  “Give it time, Rabih,” she advised him. “That’s all.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly.

  Rabih shrugged.

  “Just time,” Fatmeh repeated, “she’ll come around.”

  “I hope so.”

  “And a little patience,” she added quickly.

  Upstairs the floorboards creaked.

  “Rania’s awake,” Fatmeh said. “She’ll be down soon. It probably wouldn’t be the best idea for her to see us gossiping.”

  “No, probably not.” Rabih drained his coffee cup.

  “Rabih,” Fatmeh said, catching his wrist as he got up, “stay in Cairo.”

  It was a beautiful day in March, yet Salah and Rabih were sitting in one of the darkened back rooms at El Fishawy. A waiter came in with fresh narghiles, glasses of hot, sweet mint tea, and plates of almonds and dates. After he left, Salah opened a map of the Hejaz and Rabih began to make a few notes.

  Salah was just about to help himself to a juicy date, his hand hovering over a small bowl of the dried fruit, when a small furry creature jumped on the table, snatched the date, and ran off screeching with delight.

  “You little minx!” Salah swore.

  “Sorry about that, Salah.” Charlie appeared out of nowhere. “George, give Salah his date back.”

  The monkey ambled back, looking ashamed, and handed the date to Salah.

  “The monkey has a name?”

  “Yes …”

  “You gave a monkey a name?”

  “He deserves one,” Charles said, handing the monkey a few nuts to munch on. George beamed at Charles, showed him all his teeth, and scampered away.

  “Where’s Lawrence?”

  “He should be here any minute.”

  “Here I am!” Lawrence announced. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How is everyone today on these ides of March?”

  “How are our guerillas doing?” Salah asked.

  “Excellent!” Lawrence replied enthusiastically. “We’ve only just begun, but we’re tying the Ottomans up nicely. They’re expending an enormous amount of resources and sending more of their troops down to the Hejaz to defend the railway, which means they won’t be able to send as many to the Western Front to help the Germans, or attack the Suez Canal.”

  “Is that the British strategy?” Rabih asked.

  Lawrence nodded.

  “So … it is as I have suspected all along,” Salah started.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What you are saying is the British don’t care about Arab independence at all … all they care about is defending the Suez and winning the war in Western Europe.”

  “Salah,” Charlie said. “If the British and the Allies win, the Arabs will have their independence.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Of course!” Lawrence said.

  “I don’t know, Lawrence,” Salah said. “Something tells me that the Arabs will get buggered in the end. Even if the British win, they will not give Faisal an Arab state.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Word on the street is that the British and French have already signed an agreement to split Arab land between themselves … they’ve promised the same piece of land twice, to the Arabs and to themselves,” Salah said. “I’ve heard it’s called the Asia Minor agreement.”

  “Salah, don’t be silly,” Lawrence said. “We’ve given our word. We won’t go back on it.”

  “Please don’t take me for a fool, Lawrence,” Salah said. “If the British have not gone back on their word, then why and how did my friends all die?” Salah leaned forward.

  “Salah … what happened to your friends was horrible …” Lawrence started.

  “My friends were betrayed,” Salah interrupted. “By the British and the French. Their heads were handed to Jemmal on a platter.”

  “Salah, please, I assure you that the Arabs will have their state.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because I will give it to them.”

  Salah snorted and sat back in his chair, looking at Lawrence through narrowed eyes.

  “Very well, Lawrence,” Salah said. “Let’s see you prove it. If I hear one word from Faisal that British gold or supplies are not getting to him, I swear, Lawrence, I will find you and you will answer for it.”

  “I will, Salah,” Lawrence replied. “Now look, I have a plan. In addition to the guerilla attacks, I think we should attack Aqaba.”

  “The village?” Rabih said, surprised. “Why?”

  “Because it’s another port and while my ‘irregulars’ are doing a good job, the Turks are getting smarter about blocking supply routes to Faisal, and we need those to be open. Our intelligence sources say that the Turks may try and take back the ports of Jeddah and Yenbu.”

  “But how are you planning on taking it? The Germans must have U-boats in the gulf around Aqaba,” Salah said.

  “I’m going to go over land.”

  “You want to cross the Nefud Desert?” Rabih was incredulous. “You are mad indeed.”

  “I’ve got seasoned t
ribes with me. But, it’s going to take me some time to convince the British command here to let me go with Aqaba.”

  “In the meantime, we need to keep distracting the Turks?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes, we do.”

  “What if you make the Turks believe that you’re headed straight up to Damascus?” Salah suggested. “They will start concentrating troops further north in Syria, which means troop concentration in Aqaba will be slim.”

  Charlie nodded his approval. Lawrence’s frown turned to a smile.

  “We need to start attacking the railway further north than we have been doing?” Rabih chimed in.

  “That’s it,” Salah said.

  “So, we need to look at the railway near Ma’an.” Rabih pointed on the map.

  “Lawrence, we can leave the guerilla tribesmen in the Hejaz and we can ride north to Syria to throw the Ottomans off,” Charlie said. “And as soon as we get the go-ahead from General Murray for Aqaba, the tribesmen can start blowing up the railway in conjunction with the attack on Aqaba.”

  “But for now, we should do a little damage to the railway north, in Palestine, to throw the Turks off the scent of Aqaba,” Salah said.

  They all nodded.

  “And, Lawrence, you need to turn up the volume,” Salah said. “Why blow up just the tracks? Blow up the goddamn trains themselves.”

  “All right … with pleasure.”

  Salah sat back in his chair and took a puff of his narghile.

  “Will you come with us, Salah? Rabih?” Lawrence asked.

  “I’m in,” Rabih said.

  “Very well,” Salah agreed, after a long pause.

  Yvonne and Saydeh were deep in conversation, Fatmeh was writing, the usual shopkeepers were enjoying their morning coffee, and Rania was behind the bar when Takla flew into the café; she was shaking with anger.

  “Where is that son of yours?” she barked at Saydeh, her eyes glinting with anger.

  The café went quiet as everyone turned around to look at her.

  “Calm down, Takla.” Yvonne put a hand on her wrist.

  But Takla yanked it away.

  “I don’t know where Salah is,” Saydeh replied, her forehead knitting with worry at Takla’s distress. “What’s the matter? Maybe I can help?”