Of Sea and Sand

by Denyse Woods

  Denyse Woods, who sometimes writes as Denyse Devlin, is an Irish novelist based in Cork. Born in Boston and raised all over the place, her novels include the critically-acclaimed Overnight to Innsbruck and the bestselling The Catalpa Tree. Reflecting a long-held interest in the Arab world, three of her books are based in the Middle East. Her work has been translated into six languages. Of Sea and Sand is her sixth novel.

  Of Sea and Sand

  Denyse Woods

  Copyright © 2018 by

  Hoopoe

  113 Sharia Kasr el Aini, Cairo, Egypt

  420 Fifth Avenue, New York, 10018

  www.hoopoefiction.com

  Hoopoe is an imprint of the American University in Cairo Press

  www.aucpress.com

  Protected under the Berne Convention

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978 977 416 803 1

  eISBN: 978 161 797 880 7

  Version 1

  To Henry, Lauren, Diana, and Sebastian

  To Jonathan Williams

  In Memory of Aingeal Ní Murchú

  Let us weep, recalling a love and a lodging

  by the rim of the twisted sands

  —Imru’ al-Qays, al-Mu‘allaqat

  In the dark of night I believe

  And sometimes in the day;

  Maybe they’re not there at all

  But still I believe.

  —“The Good People” by Vincent Woods

  I

  Dear Prudence

  In theory, Gabriel had come for a month; in practice, he knew he would never go back. Glancing out, and seeing jagged black mountains appear on the right of the aircraft, he gasped. He had thought he was beyond any such reaction, believing himself to be numb and numbed, too detached for wonder of any sort. Awe, he thought, was a luxury enjoyed by the emotionally alert, by those of enhanced perception, whereas he was dulled, blunted, now and forever, amen. And yet he had gasped when he had looked through the aircraft window and seen those magnificent angry edges scraping the blue-blue sky. It looked to be an inhospitable environment down there, but it could hardly be worse than the environment from which he had come.

  He had been dispatched to stay with his sister in order to recover—not from a breakdown or a bout of serious illness (although he felt as if he’d had both) but from guilt. Shame, too. Pointless, he thought. What cure for shame? A change of scenery could hardly be expected to wipe it out. No, the only thing that could repair the damage was for time to go into reverse, to undo his steps and allow him another direction. Unfortunately, air travel could not offer the same facilities as time travel but, still, he had come away; although he could not undo the remorse, he could at least escape his parents’ wordless agony.

  His heart burned. This was the beginning of an odyssey, one that had already failed, because it could not do otherwise, but he would nonetheless trudge along its way, going wherever it took him, never, ever, turning back. He would not even look over his shoulder. He would not return to Ireland, or see again her lumpen skies, her slate headlands or creamy beaches. It was a heavy price, yet no price at all.

  His brother-in-law met him at the airport with a cursory handshake—scarcely a welcome; more an acknowledgment of his arrival. Gabriel, it seemed, had traveled three thousand miles to receive the same chilling treatment he’d been enduring at home. The airport building was small, dusty. Men wearing long white dishdashas and skullcaps stood around chatting, but offered a nod and a greeting, “Welcome to Muscat. Ahlan,” as Rolf led the way out into the sunshine and across to the parking lot.

  As they drove into town, Gabriel noticed, along the shoreline, bundles of white boxy houses, like a crowd that had rushed to the coast and been brought to a halt by the sea. Muscat looked like an outpost, a place on the edge. The edge of the sea, of the land, of Arabia. An ideal place to cower.

  “This is Muttrah, actually,” Rolf said. “The town is spread out, and old Muscat is farther along, beyond those hills.” He pulled in behind some buildings. “We have to walk the last bit of the way.”

  The March heat was manageable. Gabriel welcomed the sun on his shoulders—some warmth at last—as he followed Rolf along narrow, scrappy streets, where small shops were opening their shutters to the day and shopkeepers nodded as they passed. Space nudged itself between the compacted thoughts in Gabriel’s head, spreading their density, making elbow room. For weeks he had felt compressed, as if the air were tightening around him and would go on doing so until he was unable to think at all; a kind of mental suffocation.

  They turned up to the right and followed a curved lane, with houses pulled tight on either side, until they came to a corner house. “This is it,” said Rolf. “We won’t be here much longer. Our new place will be ready soon, but for now . . .” He pushed open the low wooden door and stood back.

  Gabriel dipped his head and stepped straight into a white living room. Immediately he saw Annie, and felt relief. She came through a doorway at the back, wiping her hands on a tea towel. They embraced. “How are you?” she asked.

  “Wrecked.”

  They were close, Annie and Gabriel. No better person, he thought. No other person. If there was any hope for him at all, it lay in the understanding and soothing ministrations of his sister. At least he could bear to be with her.

  “Come, come,” Rolf said, trying to get past them.

  “Nice,” Gabriel said, looking around. The whitewashed room was sparsely furnished, with bench seating, draped in fabrics the colors of sunsets, along two sides, and a narrow window allowed one beam of sunlight to target the floor. A breakfast table and chairs stood near an entrance that led into a small kitchen, beside which another opening led to the rest of the house. They had impeccable taste. Annie was a stylish bird, he used to tell his friends—and Rolf was Swiss, a perfectionist in all things esthetic; and they had money, which helped. Rolf had been working for an oil company for years and had accrued his wealth on a fat expat, tax-free salary, which he generally referred to as “grocery money.” His only real interest was painting.

  Annie stood, watching her brother.

  Gabriel smiled. There was something in her he adored. Simplicity, perhaps; the way she got things right. He liked Rolf too, a pragmatic artist twelve years her senior.

  She did not return his smile. She said, “Funny, you look like the same person you were two months ago.”

  It cut right through. So this was how it was going to be.

  She went into the kitchen. “Tea?”

  “Great, thanks. Mam gave me some for you. Tea, I mean. Bags and . . . well, leaves.”

  “Rolf, would you show Gabriel his room?”

  Gabriel followed his brother-in-law up a narrow whitewashed stairwell to a room that stood alone on the top floor. “A little tight,” said Rolf, “but cooler in the hot weather. It gets the sea breeze.”

  “It’s perfect. Thanks.”

  Rolf seemed on the point of saying something. Gabriel hoped he wouldn’t. He was only just off the plane, for Christ’s sake. Couldn’t they keep the recriminations until later? With a blink, Rolf seemed to reach the same conclusion. “Bathroom one floor down, I’m afraid. Come down when you’re ready.”

  Gabriel moved backward to the bed and sat on its hard surface. His hands were trembling. In his own sister’s house, he was shaking. What had he hoped for? Compassion? Yes, a little. He scratched his forehead, entertained, almost, by his own narcissism, because only undiluted ego could have allowed him to expect open arms and a shoulder to lean on. And he was fearful now, because
if Annie could not forgive him, no one ever would.

  He had a quick shower, changed into lighter clothes, and went downstairs. Rolf and Annie were in another room—long and quite formal, with a blood-red hue about it, set off by dark red rugs and drapes. The seating, which ran along the wall, was low and soft and covered in cushions and bolsters.

  “Nice,” he said.

  “This is the diwan,” said Annie. “We use it all the time, but in traditional houses it’s like the reception room, used for special occasions.”

  “Ah, like the Sunday room at home. Never used except when the priest calls.”

  They were sitting rather stiffly in front of a tray (thermos jug, three glasses, bread and fruit—he was hungry suddenly), looking like stern parents who had discovered their teenager had been smoking pot in his room.

  Gabriel tried to lighten the mood. “You two look like you’re about to give me a major telling-off.”

  Annie leaned forward to pour. “What good would that do?”

  “Might make you feel better.” He sat down.

  “You think so?” she said, one eyebrow arched, her eyes on the stream of urine-colored liquid flowing from the jug.

  They sipped their tea as Gabriel looked around at their accumulated artifacts: Eastern rugs, heavy timber chests, daggers with adorned silver hilts. How easily Annie wore this life, he thought. He envied her. He wished he’d done it. Got out. Away. Before he’d had to.

  The tea was served in the small glasses and bitter without milk. He was a man who enjoyed a great wallop of milk in his tea, but he would get used to it, just as he must get used to other things. Like the light—so very bright, white almost, and cheering, as it shone through windows high in the wall. Gabriel felt the change of air, of country and continent, in his blood, which already seemed to be flowing thinner through his veins. “So this is an old-fashioned sultanate, yeah?” he asked. “And the sultan deposed his own father?”

  Rolf nodded. “Twelve years ago, in 1970.”

  “Sounds pretty cheeky. There’s no dissent?”

  “He’s doing a lot for the country,” said Rolf. “There were nine schools in 1970, but schools and hospitals are opening every week now, and transport is improving, with new roads heading out in every direction. So of course he’s popular, but he’s low-key.”

  Annie was nibbling on a corner of bread—nervously, Gabriel realized. Christ.

  Rolf cleared his throat and grasped at conversational straws. “So, umm, you’ve escaped the deep freeze.”

  Gabriel nodded. “That’s long over.”

  Annie’s curiosity dived around her rectitude, like a rugby player getting over the line. “What was it like?”

  “Bloody cold is what it was like. We didn’t have the snow they had in Dublin, but even in Cork people struggled to get about. Ice everywhere.” He wanted to add, Just like there is right here.

  “Sandra wrote and said there was a lovely atmosphere, everyone helping out and being cheerful and stuff.”

  “Yeah, I cleared quite a few driveways.”

  And that was all it took for Annie to swerve right back into disapproval. “I should hope so. But doing good deeds for the neighbors won’t change anything.”

  “Annie,” Rolf said quietly.

  Gabriel turned to him with a sheepish glance. “Thanks, Rolf, for . . . fixing this. I hope it wasn’t too much hassle getting me that certificate thing.”

  His brother-in-law lifted, then dropped one shoulder in a half-shrug.

  “What does it mean—a ‘No Objection Certificate’?”

  “It’s a type of visa. Oman is loosening up a bit, but you still have to be sponsored by an employer to get in.”

  “So how did you pull it off? Do I have to work for someone?”

  Rolf shook his head. “I explained your—our—circumstances to a well-connected friend of mine, Rashid al-Suwaidi. He owns an import‒export company and has other interests. He organized the paperwork.”

  “Did you have to . . .”

  Rolf gave him the hard eye.

  “You know—baksheesh, or whatever it’s called.”

  “Bribe him, you mean? He’s a friend, Gabriel. He did it for us. So for God’s sake don’t make any trouble for him.”

  Gabriel raised his hands in apology.

  Rolf stood up. “Baksheesh! Is that the extent of your understanding of this part of the world? The Arabs understand friendship better than any nation. Don’t forget that. I must go to work, Annie.”

  “Don’t be late,” she said anxiously, as if she feared being left alone with her younger brother.

  After he left, silence settled on them, like sepia over a print. Although it had been ages since they had had any proper time alone together, Annie had little to say, it seemed, and Gabriel even less. “So, you like it here?”

  “You know I do.” With one finger, she pushed a corner of flatbread, smeared with honey, across her plate. “Even more than I expected, in fact. I’ve made great friends.” She put down her glass. “It’s a pretty good life, all in all.”

  Annie was the only remaining person whom Gabriel could look straight in the eye, but it pained him to do so now, because there was only sadness there, and he could see a weight around her, as if the dense atmosphere that had been strangling him was also hugging her, curbing her movements. And that was him. He was the very density that restricted her.

  She cleared her throat. “So, what do you want to do while you’re here?” she asked, as if he were some kind of tourist.

  “What is there to do?”

  “Well, there’s loads to see—mountains, desert, sea. People go fishing and snorkeling, but Rolf paints when he’s off work, which might be a bit dull for you.”

  She made it sound like a personal reproach, which was another low blow. It had been Gabriel, after all, who had picked Rolf out of the crowd in a pub and had engaged him in conversation at the bar. Introductions were made, drinks were bought, and Annie was unobtrusively proffered. “Come and join us,” Gabriel had said to the visitor. “I’m with my sister.” With a formal nod and almost a click of his heels, Rolf declared himself to be enchanted when they were introduced at the small round table in the corner, though Annie was less impressed. He’d looked like an old bloke to her, but Gabriel had persevered, inviting him back to their home for supper, after which Rolf took over, wooing Annie in a quiet, discreet sort of way. Gabriel knew, instinctively, that he was the perfect life partner for his adored second self, and when the time had come for Rolf to leave Ireland, Annie found it inexplicably difficult to let him go. She had become accustomed to his presence, to the quiet fuss he made of her, to his curious English and his solid, attractive frame, so Gabriel told her to follow, even though that meant going to Oman, where Rolf had been working for some years. To her own surprise, she was easily persuaded. Her job in the bank was dull, the news always bad, with one or another atrocity reported daily from Northern Ireland, and the Republic was gray, grim, and sinking deeper into recession. The Arabian Gulf and the twinkling white town of Muscat, which Rolf had described, were, in contrast, attractive propositions.

  They had married after a short courtship—it was the only way for her to reside in Oman, and now, two years later, she was hoping to become pregnant.

  “You should get some rest,” she said suddenly. “You look exhausted. Aren’t you sleeping?”

  A sliver of concern shows through at last, Gabriel thought. “Are any of us sleeping?”

  “We’ve been invited out this evening. Dinner with friends,” she said. “I accepted on your behalf.”

  Annie was slight, always had been. Pale of complexion, with short brown hair and livid blue eyes (unlike either of her brown-eyed brothers), she looked younger than she was—gamine; more like twenty-two than twenty-eight. Her long spindly fingers, like spiders’ legs, were never still—as now—rolling bits of torn-off bread between her fingertips. She kept her eyes on her hands when she went on, “There isn’t much in the way of nightlife.
The Intercontinental, mostly. So we socialize a lot in one another’s houses. . . . Anyway, our friends are keen to meet you.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  She looked up. “You don’t think I’ve told them? Good God, why would I do that?”

  “You haven’t said anything?”

  “No. I didn’t feel I had much choice. Anyway, it’s bad enough that my friends at home are gossiping about us over their coffee-breaks.” She rubbed her hands together in an abstracted way. “Still, the story’s losing its legs now.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Aunt Gertie. She’s been great. Writing every week. She’s the only person who seems to realize what it’s like for me over here, out of the loop.”

  “You’re far better off.”

  “Oh, am I? Away from Mam, at a time like this? Have you any idea how hard it was to come back last month? Only I had no choice, had I? Because you needed somewhere to run away to!”

  This was not it, not it at all. Gabriel had believed he was coming to Muscat to be comforted by someone who loved him unconditionally, and therefore forgave him. Instead, she was hissing and spitting and twisted with hurt. There would be no reprieve here.

  “It’s so hard at times like this,” she said, her voice breaking, “being away.”

  “I suppose.” It seemed fair that she too should be allowed to believe that this was worse for her than for anyone else in the family. There had been a lot of that going on.

  “But as far as our friends here are concerned,” she continued, “you’re on holiday, so perk up. Make an effort, please.”

  Dinner with friends, Gabriel thought, going upstairs to rest. The prospect made him sweat, but at least they wouldn’t have to sit across a dining table, just the three of them, trying to duck the elephant.

  It was difficult for Annie. She loved Gabriel; adored him. Sometimes she wondered about that, about whom she loved most and to whom she owed the greatest loyalty. Gabriel was a part of her, an extension. He had come the same way with her; they had come the same way together until he’d delivered her into Rolf’s safe hands. Into contentment. Initially, she had worried about finding love enough for both men, but had discovered room in her heart to accommodate her brother and her husband in comfort. Neither pushed the other aside; they could remain shoulder to shoulder, it seemed, and her loyalties need never be truly strained. As for their older brother, Max, well, everyone loved Max, and so did she, but when they were growing up, he wasn’t affectionate, cuddly, or approachable, and he’d always had work to do. By the time she was a teenager, she’d found him irritating, even embarrassing, and he was no fun; the grooves in his forehead were deep by the time he’d turned thirteen. Gabriel was the soft one, amenable. He and Annie looked out at the world from the same point of reference.