Olives

by Alexander McNabb

  Aisha had never seen Seven Pillars of Wisdom, let alone read the book, and I teased her for not knowing her own history. My enormous expenditure on Amazon had paid off and Aisha’s voice was raised above the wind noise, her hand raised, palm upwards and her fingers a splayed cascade of mock anger.

  ‘You pompous Brit. That’s your history, not mine. He was a liar, anyway.’

  ‘Who, Lawrence?’

  ‘Yes, your precious Lawrence.’

  ‘How do you know? You haven’t even read the book.’

  ‘Everyone knows he was a liar. He liked boys.’

  ‘Unfair. Just like an Arab. Avoid the argument you can’t win by choosing one you think you can.’

  She thickened her accent as she tossed her head. ‘Yalla, Brit. Live with this. Ana I am Arab.’

  ‘He was a great writer.’

  She muttered darkly, ‘He was a great liar.’

  ‘And a poet.’

  ‘Yah. Right.’

  I closed my window so she could hear me clearly. ‘I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands, and wrote my will across the sky in stars, to earn you freedom, the seven pillared worthy house, that your eyes might be shining for me when we came. Death seemed my servant on the road, till we were near and saw you waiting, when you smiled, and in sorrowful envy he outran me and took you apart into his quietness.’

  She was silent for a while. ‘He wrote this?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Does poetry have to have a reason?’

  ‘Maybe. Tell me it again.’

  I did, in my finest Olivier voice and she listened, her head bowed and her lips pursed in concentration. I was pleased she liked it: I had always thought it a beautiful piece of poetry.

  ‘What is it? This poem? When did he write it?’

  ‘It’s the dedication from Seven Pillars.’ Aisha looked over at me for explanation. ‘You know, when writers have a little note saying ‘To Mum’ or something in their book.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  I enjoyed the fruits of my little triumph (and Lawrence’s) silently, opening the window again so the wind whipped along the side of my face. The dedication to Seven Pillars is one of the great mysteries of twentieth century literature. I didn’t tell her most people think it’s written to a boy. No point in giving the enemy ammunition.

  ‘He was still a liar.’

  ‘Aisha.’ She laughed, sticking her tongue out at me.

  Another silence, wheels on tarmac, wind noise and Aisha thoughtful again, looking out of the window. She turned to me, a look of pure calculating wickedness on her angel’s face.

  ‘So who was it dedicated to, this dedication? To his mother?’ she asked me, her grin broadening when she caught the look on my face. ‘No. This poetry of dedication had a reason. It is written to somebody he cared for, he owed a debt. If he fought for the Arabs, it is dedicated to an Arab. A dead Arab.’

  When she learned a new word or a new use for a word, English being full of multi-purpose words, Aisha would try and use it soon after, testing its boundaries and meanings. She felt it helped her put the word in its place. I should have known she’d ask. I thought fast.

  ‘The dedication is simply to S.A. but nobody’s quite sure who S.A. is. Most authorities claim it’s Salim Ahmed, a young man he worked with before the war when he travelled in the Levant as an archaeologist.’

  I was on a roll, having decided on obfuscation as a tactic in my desperation to steal victory away from her. She would have none of it, cutting me off.

  ‘So S.A. was a boy.’

  ‘Well, yes—’

  ‘A dead boy. An Arab boy.’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean—’

  ‘Forget it Paul,’ she said. ‘Another typical Brit, dressing up his nasty taste for our children in his fine words.’

  Sensing I was on a phenomenal losing streak, Aisha was merciless, her voice haughty as she turned away from me.

  ‘You know, the French call it the English disease. Frankly, Paul, I’m surprised I’ve managed to hold your interest for so long. Surely you must feel the pull of your nation’s favourite pastime.’

  The car swerved as I punched her shoulder and she screamed ‘Bully’ at me.

  The lobby of the Movenpick Resort and Spa Dead Sea bustled with a mixture of tourists and suits, the bellboys rushing to load the cascade of suitcases, boxes of literature and pop-up banners being lifted out of car boots. We waited at the check-in desk. We had spent all morning clambering around Kerak Castle and I looked dusty and dishevelled with a dark streak of mud on my beige trousers from a slip when we had walked together up Wadi Mujib, a stop on the road from the castle to the hotel. Aisha looked elegant and fresh, untouched by dust or heat. At her feet was the small, round-cornered silver flight case she had brought with her and that she hadn’t let out of her sight, a high-end digital camera Daoud had asked her to bring to him at the conference. The police protection team had insisted Daoud stay away from the Dajani house until after the conference.

  The desk clerk handed us our card-keys. We were following the bellboy pushing our bags on a trolley when I heard my name called. A woman’s voice, an English accent. Aisha hadn’t noticed and carried on walking, chatting with the bellboy as I turned to face Anne, smiling as best I could.

  ‘Annie. Wow. What brings you here?’

  Her returned smile was brittle. She wore a figure-hugging pinstripe suit and her blonde hair tied back. She gestured at the conference badge pinned to her jacket.

  ‘I’m working with the Anglo-Jordanian Consortium. Do you remember Valentjin?’ She took in my blank look. ‘Valentjin Steenberg. From the dinner we went to with your friend upstairs. What was his name? Lars?’

  Valentjin. Privatisation Man. The disastrous dinner we’d had with Lars just after Anne had arrived in Jordan. Lars and I got drunk while she and Privatisation Man talked international law and sipped iced Perrier. Anne and I had gone home to a blazing row afterwards.

  ‘Yes, yes I remember him.’

  ‘We kept in touch and he brought us in as legal consultants to the consortium because of our experience with large scale utility privatisations in Europe.’ She laughed. ‘I honestly didn’t expect to come to Jordan again.’

  A voice in my head asked me how on earth I had ever become involved with this woman, let alone share her bed.

  ‘No. No, I suppose not. Great. Cool. Well, um, good luck.’

  Anne put her hand on my forearm which, I realised too late, was crossed defensively. Her touch was dry and I flinched, watching her eyes widen in an instant of exquisite embarrassment between two absolute strangers.

  ‘I actually wanted to try and find you, Paul. I thought you might be here at the conference. Do you have time for a coffee?’

  I turned to Aisha, who was waiting with the bellboy by the lift. ‘I’ve just checked in, actually, just have to get the things to the room, you know...’

  Anne stared across at Aisha. She turned to me. ‘I see. Look, Paul, I just wanted to tell you to be careful. The Anglo-Jordanian bid is strongly favoured by the Israeli, British and American governments, as you probably know. This whole process has become terribly,’ she searched for the word for a second, glancing at Aisha, ‘political. I know you’re tied up with the Dajanis.’

  I somehow managed to keep the surge of anger out of my expression, but every shred of me wanted to hurl obscenities at her.

  ‘What have they got to do with a Jordanian privatisation, Anne? It’s these people’s decision to make, not theirs.’

  ‘Well, there’s more at stake than just one country here, isn’t there Paul? It’s a regional issue after all. Look, I mustn’t keep you,’ she looked down at my trousers, ‘You probably want to freshen up. Perhaps we’ll have the chance to chat later on.’

  I looked up from my stained leg, but she had already turned and walked away.

  We sat on the low wall by the pebble beach together, looking out over the viscous Dead Sea at
the last of the stunning winter sunset, the air still warm but cooling fast into night. The still plane of the sea was dark, the last orange reflection seeming to reach out to us. The dark hills across the water were a vignette of terracotta to dark wine as darkness embraced the waning sun. Aisha’s sketchbook was closed.

  I drank her in, her hair blown back from her face by the warm breeze, her eyes closed and face lifted in exultation, her brown skin catching the last glow of light. The condensation glistened on our glasses and moistened her fingers as she drank. I took her wet hand and put it to my lips.

  She opened her eyes lazily, her voice chocolate. ‘Flatterer.’

  ‘No, I’m an amateur at that. I’ll have to take lessons from Ibrahim.’

  She laughed and sipped her wine. ‘I wish this could last longer. I wish we didn’t have to do this whole conference thing tomorrow.’

  ‘But when it’s over, once the decision’s taken and Daoud’s safe we’ve got forever. We can take some time out and just sit on beach. Aqaba, maybe.’

  ‘Why do you think Anne wanted to warn you, Paul?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been worrying about it, actually. I don’t know why she’d even want to talk to me. It’s not as if, well, you know, as if I behaved well when saw her last.’

  Aisha’s voice was a touch too light. ‘She looked nice.’

  ‘She comes from a different world, Aish. I couldn’t understand what I had ever thought I had in common with her. She’s like a total stranger to me.’

  Aisha stayed silent for a while.

  ‘We have a saying, you know. My brother against my cousin, my cousin against the stranger. Maybe she thought you need protecting from me.’ She gave a sly little smile.

  I looked out across the dark water, small waves sloshing thickly against the stony shore. ‘So are you a brother or a cousin?’

  She moved then, getting up in a single fluid moment, sitting on my legs and straddling me, her hand around my neck.

  ‘I am your lover, Paul. Closer to you than either.’

  Our mouths opened together, our tongues meeting, our touches slow and rhythmic. We stayed like it for a long time, until the sun had disappeared and the darkness enveloped us. The beach bar had long closed, the waiter leaving us with our bottle and glasses, a single shadow on the wall by the water’s edge.

  We went up to my room, Aisha carrying her sandals. She sat me down on the bed, carefully padding around the room, turning all the lights off except the bedside lamp. Standing in front of me, she peeled off her black dress, her smooth body shadowed in the lamplight as she revealed black and red underwear. She unpicked the buttons of my shirt and slid it off me, undoing my belt and opening my trousers. I hardly dared to breathe, stilled with the wonder of it all. Still she stood in front of me, close to me. I leaned forward, but she pushed me back. She unclipped her bra and bent, sliding her hands down her thighs, hooking her thumbs into her knickers and pulling them down to her ankles, stepping out of them daintily. She came towards me, took my head in her hands and pulled me into her.

  The alarm call woke us at six. Aisha looked startled for a second, then focused her sleepy eyes and found her place, grinned at me and kissed me quickly before getting up and dressing. I lay in bed, savouring our first awakening together, stretching lazily and luxuriating in her scent, the rumpled bed and the lingering musk of our passion.

  Watching her, a moment of profound pride and happiness overwhelmed me. I had noticed when we walked together or sat in a bar or hotel lobby together, men’s eyes lingered on us. Women would look us up and down, doing that Arab evaluation thing, starting at the head and scanning down then up. I was reflected in Aisha’s beauty, somehow becoming more than a sloppily dressed misfit because she was with me. I was proud of her, proud of myself. Just proud.

  She stood over me again, almost exactly where she’d stood the night before, her hands on her hips and her head tilted to one side in enquiry, her hair wild. ‘Penny for them.’

  I lay back, bare to the stomach, my hands behind my head. ‘Truth?’

  ‘Truth.’

  ‘I love you.’

  She sat down on the bed then, put her hand on my belly, dark on pale. She was serious, her big eyes on me. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Yes. Truly.’

  She smiled gravely. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘I know. Hang on.’

  I rolled out of bed, pulled on the white towelling hotel bathrobe and followed her as she left. I stopped at the door and kissed her before I opened it for her, standing in the doorway as she slipped out.

  Aisha’s fleeting kiss brought me back to reality for a second as she ran down the corridor to her room. I turned to look at the wreckage of pillows and sheets in the grey dawn light and realised I had used a word I don’t like using. I had gifted her my absolute truth.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Aisha’s soft touch was a little thrill as I helped her off the conference shuttle bus, the exhaust fumes making me squint up at her as the warm light caught her fine features. It was a hot Dead Sea day and I shifted uncomfortably in the unfamiliar confines of a suit. She glanced at me as her high heels hit tarmac, a flash of white teeth at my discomfiture.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you installed in the press office so I can find Harb and Zahlan.’

  We walked into the King Hussein convention centre, more buses pulling up behind us as conference visitors streamed in from the hotels along the Dead Sea coast and from the public car parks down the road. The keynote speaker, Harb Al Hashemi, Jordanian Minister of Natural Resources by the Grace of God, was also, Aisha told me, going to announce the result of the privatisation. The evaluation committee had reviewed the financial offers of both bidders and made its choice. Harb would reveal all.

  Security was tight, a long queue for the scanners, metal detectors and serious-faced uniforms manning them. Aisha kept setting off the metal detector, taking off her jewellery, watch and finally shoes. A peasant-faced woman in a green uniform grinned at Aisha, tapping herself on her dumpy breasts: ‘Wire.’

  They took Aisha away, blushing furiously, to be ‘checked by hand.’ When she came back I got a slap for laughing at her, pushing up my chest and grunting, ‘Wire.’

  We parted outside the press office and agreed to meet for lunch before I went in to start putting finishing touches to the conference opening press releases I had pre-written so I could keep up with the flow of news throughout the morning.

  After sending off the first release of the day I cued up the second on my laptop. It was the announcement of the winning consortium and all I needed to complete it was the winner’s name. Anxious to catch Harb’s speech in person, I made my way through the logo-strewn corridors and the smiling suits packing the exhibition area, zigzagging across to the conference hall.

  I sat in the back row of the hall so I could get out easily and post my release when the moment came. Although everyone at the Ministry was positive Dajani’s Jerusalem Consortium would win, I had to actually hear Harb say the words before I could make the news public.

  The huge room filled up quickly, with only a few minutes until the Minister was due to speak. I saw Aisha on the stage fussing over the laptop on the lectern. I stiffened at the voice from behind me.

  ‘Top o’ the mornin’ to ye. Thought I’d find you sitting in the naughty seats.’

  I turned to face a grinning Gerald Lynch.

  ‘Sure, I’d turn back around nice and natural unless you want to advertise our connection, now Paul.’ He spoke quietly in the growing hubbub.

  ‘What do you want now?’

  ‘Paul, Paul. Christ, but you are one very grumpy young man these days. Why should I want anything? I’m just turnin’ up to hear the great man himself, amn’t I?’

  If Lynch cranking up the feckless Paddy act was intended to goad me it was certainly working. Scanning the room, I spotted Daoud close to the stage. He had a severe-faced older man with him, a soup-strainer moustache and a brown polyester suit. Mukhabarat. Secret po
lice. I’d learned to recognise them from a mile away and Daoud’s pal was typical of the breed. Aisha told me her brother had insisted on attending the conference against the advice of the security people. I took care to keep my eye moving through the crowd so Lynch wouldn’t notice my interest in Daoud.

  The house lights dimmed and people started to settle down, the room not quite full, so Lynch and I were isolated in our back row seats. He leaned forward so his whisper came to me from shockingly close by. ‘You know, I should be angry at the stunt you pulled in The Jordan Times, Paul. Nice work, though. Jaysus, you’ve a talent for it, eh? You shouldn’t have much trouble getting a job once this is all over.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ Studied innocence. ‘TMG has pulled out of its contract with the Ministry. Shock move and all that. Mister Robin Goodyear felt other markets should take priority, apparently. They picked up a lot of defence-related work in Europe. Looks like you’ll be going home soon enough. Sure, that’ll be nice fer ye. You must be missin’ the old place. Bacon butties, good beer, all that. Porky scratchings.’

  The lights dimmed totally leaving only the stage illuminated. The chill-out music died and the room got to its feet as the Jordanian national anthem played out.

  Harb Al Hashemi took to the stage. I could hear Lynch breathing behind me but I couldn’t turn, couldn’t run. I shook my head, denying his insidious voice as the room echoed with applause for the Minister of Natural Resources. Harb was composed, smiling, his hand on the lectern as he scanned the room. ‘Bismillah Arrahman Arrahim. Sayidati sadaty. Assalam aleikoum.’

  A murmur ran around the auditorium, ‘Aleikoum assalam.’

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Today is an historic day for Jordan and for our region and I am delighted to be talking to you at the inauguration of what I hope will be the most important platform for our region to share best practices, solutions and strategic partnerships in the development, management and sustenance of the most important resource to our region and its people. Water.’