by Isobel Chace
Brahim had brought them punctually at nine, but it had been well after midnight before they had finished calculating the finances of the estate and deciding how much could be allocated to the various demands that were made on it.
She and Brahim had drunk tea in the way of the Sahara, with the first cup weak, the second strong and very sweet and the third equally strong but bitter, and they had reluctantly set apart the greater amount of the profits for the benefit of the de Hallets.
Afterwards Katherine had walked in the spacious pleasure gardens. It had been another night like the first one she had known in Tunisia, with the stars so close that one could almost pick them out of the sky and with the trees making strange shapes against the silver of the moon. To her surprise Guillaume had come out to join her. She hadn’t been able to see the vivid blue of his eyes in the darkness, she had only seen the weakness of his chin and mouth and the rather endearing way he had of waiting for approval like an over-anxious puppy.
“I suppose you think we are a couple of worms,” he had opened the conversation.
She had smiled in the darkness.
“No, why should I?” she had replied gently.
He hadn’t said anything for a moment, then suddenly he had said,
“I am glad you’re going from here. Chantal would hurt you if she could, and you’re too nice for that.” He had smiled and she had seen the whiteness of his teeth in the moonlight. “And don’t let that doctor overwork you either! He and Chantal are two of a kind. I should know,” he added gloomily, “I’ve known one of them all my life and the other ever since he arrived here in 1956.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” she had asked, her voice suddenly husky.
He had looked surprised.
“I should have thought it was obvious. They’re both completely single-minded when it comes to getting their own way. People to them are pawns to be moved round the board.”
Katherine sighed, going to the window of her room and gazing out at the scene beyond. In the far distance she could just see the black line that was the sea and the palm-trees that edged the beach. Nearer to her was one of the smaller orchards and the rock garden, surrounded by moonflowers that gleamed white and romantic in the moonlight.
Dr. Peter Kreistler was as good as engaged to Chantal. It would be as well to remember that. She pulled herself up abruptly. She wasn’t going down to Sidi Behn Ahmed to see Dr. Kreistler. She was going down to work! She had worked with all kinds of doctors before and none of them had ever worried her. It would be ridiculous if she allowed herself to get all het up about this one. Ridiculous and silly and unprofessional, and she had no intention of being any of those things.
She undressed rapidly and got into bed. The soft light of the night showed up the Moorish arch of the window and the intricate metalwork that covered it to keep out intruders. It was foreign and entrancingly different. It was funny, she thought, that she should be glad to be leaving this place. And yet she was glad. She would be glad to be back with her own work, glad to be useful once again.
When she awoke, her early morning tea had already been brought to her, and with it a buff-coloured envelope. She sat up and looked at it for a long time before she opened it. It had Telegramme written in large black letters on one corner and, presumably, the same word in Arabic on the other. Who on earth would be sending her a telegram here, in Tunisia?
The paper of the envelope was cheap and tore like blotting paper when she opened it. With fumbling fingers she drew out the sheet inside and stared down at it.
STAY EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. KREISTLER.
She read it through twice and she could feel the prickle of her temper on the back of her neck. How dared he? she demanded of herself. How dared he dictate to her like that? Perhaps Guillaume had been right. Perhaps people were no more to him than pawns to be moved round a board. Well, she was moving to Sidi Behn Ahmed, whether he liked it or not, and she was going today!
But it wasn’t quite as easy as she had imagined. The distances involved were so much greater than she was accustomed to, and even if the roads were good, she didn’t see how they could possibly get there in one day.
Beshir, however, had no qualms about anything.
“Today we shall go as far as Kairouan,” he announced. “Very fine city, as you shall see. Then long day tomorrow to Sidi Behn Ahmed.”
She looked at where he was pointing on the map and agreed with him. She didn’t want him to know that her heart failed her when she saw the vast empty spaces of the south. There were fewer and fewer green splashes on the map down there — nothing but large areas of white occasionally interrupted by the blue dots that marked the most important of the salt lakes.
“Is it really safe for a small car to go off like that, by itself?” she asked Chantal after breakfast.
The French girl shrugged her shoulders.
“Are you now afraid to go?” she demanded.
Was that it? It might be true, but it wasn’t so much the land she was afraid of as the circumstances. The map didn’t show the garages, and what if they were to get a series of punctures miles from anywhere?
“I wondered if the tank would hold sufficient petrol,” she murmured.
Chantal shrugged again,
“It is usual to take extra in tins,” she said.
Katherine began to think she was worrying needlessly when Beshir brought round the car and she found that he had already filled a couple of five-gallon tins and had them strapped on securely to the back of the mini-bus. There were a couple of spare tyres too and some long rolls of canvas for use in case they ran into some loose sand drifting across the road.
“All is ready!” Beshir called to her triumphantly. He seemed pleased to think that he was going to be at the wheel for two solid days.
Katherine waited for her luggage to be put in the back and then climbed into the front seat herself. Surprisingly, both the de Hallets had come out to see her off, Chantal looking withdrawn and very glad to see the back of her, and Guillaume a little guilty.
Beshir opened the skylight behind and roared the engine until he got exactly the sweet note of response he wanted.
“Right, we go!” he shouted, and sounded the klaxon hooter with enthusiasm. A number of children who had been standing eyeing them from a distance crept a little closer and smiled shyly at the scene.
Chantal put a hand on either side of the open car door and put her head right inside the cabin. For a moment Katherine thought she was going to give her a kiss of farewell, and her heart gave a little lurch within her, but the blatant dislike in Chantal’s eyes was as apparent as ever.
“Goodbye, mon amie,” she whispered. “And remember, for your own good, Peter belongs to me!” As if she was likely to forget it! “You can give him a message from me,” the French girl went on, her eyes glinting with sudden, suppressed laughter. “Tell him that the medicine he prescribed worked only too well and that I should like some more of the same next time he comes!”
Katherine averted her eyes from that beautifully made-up, sleek face, and nodded. She could very well imagine what the medicine had been and she was annoyed to discover that the thought didn’t please her. Of course it was only because Chantal was so blatantly unsuited to being a doctor’s wife, but even so it was ridiculous to allow herself to get upset. Many other doctors had married apparently unsuitable wives and had managed very well. She must be getting narrow-minded, allowing her own prejudices to affect her judgment.
“I’ll tell him,” she agreed bleakly.
The French girl stepped back from the car and they started forward down the drive, a soft cloud of dust blowing out behind them. Guillaume waved and Katherine waved back to him, suddenly sorry to be leaving him behind. He was at least someone she knew — and liked! For she did like him. He was spoilt and weak, but there was no harm in him. She shivered slightly. He was certainly not dangerous in the same way as his sister was. Chantal left a decidedly bad taste in the mouth, with her menac
ing threats and her dislike that sometimes veered over the border into hatred. It was nice to think that she was leaving her behind as well.
Beshir drove very fast, in the French manner, with a showy pride in his skill and a delight in the klaxon horn that he occasionally varied by the softer horn that the makers had provided. Katherine found the long straight roads hypnotic. Rows and rows of olive trees stretched to either side for as far as she could see, each tree in its own saucer of earth, specially designed for the most economical use of the water. The ground was all beautifully ploughed and neatly kept, and sometimes vegetables had been planted in the shade provided by the trees.
“I suppose the oil is very valuable?” Katherine asked Beshir.
He laughed.
“I should say! In the Sahel district each tree will bear between two and three hundred pounds of fruit.”
Katherine looked at the trees with new interest, imagining them as they would be later, laden with olives.
“How much oil does that make?”
Beshir waved his hands expansively over the steering-wheel.
“In a good year, when the rains are good, one needs perhaps ten pounds to make a kilo. In not such a good year, perhaps fifteen.” He looked about him with satisfaction. “Soon, when the government plans are complete, we shall have as many olive trees in Tunisia as there were in the Roman times. Everywhere you will see more trees being planted!”
She did too. At Enfidaville they passed through the government-sponsored estates and she was impressed by the hard work that had been put into the ground everywhere. Even the poorer steppe lands were being reclaimed and villages of brand new little box-shaped houses clustered round the sources of water, providing new homes for the nomadic tribes of Bedouin that wandered through the land. Sometimes she saw a cluster of the waist-high black tents, guarded by a couple of haughty camels and one hobbled donkey, and the Bedouin children would rush out to see the car pass by.
The land grew poorer still and there were only the tough clumps of esparto grass and the hedges of prickly pear to show that anyone lived there at all. And then, quite suddenly, Kairouan was there, her white domes and minarets towering above her walls. The city the Aghlabite dynasty had built to impress the stubborn Berber people into accepting their Muslim religion rose out of the flat miles of dust in splendid beauty, like some dream of the Arabian nights. Katherine leant forward in her seat and gasped.
“Is this Kairouan?” she asked unbelievingly. She thought of the dry salt lakes and the damp muddy flats they had just come through and wondered how anyone could possibly have conceived of building a city in such a place.
Even Beshir was silent for a minute.
“Yes,” he said at last, “this is Kairouan.”
They drove through the narrow, dust-covered streets at the usual reckless pace, scattering pedestrians all around them as they leaped for safety, their brown faces breaking into ready laughter as the mini-bus tore past them.'
The flags were out, splashes of scarlet against the white walls and the dark, blue-black shadows. Beshir stopped the car and called out something to a tall man with a bright pink towel wrapped round his head like a turban. The man pointed up another street and Beshir reversed and went up it, coming to a full stop outside a small hotel.
Opposite were some gardens, with green grass and flowers and a statue of President Bourguiba. It was a small oasis of cool colour in the glare of white walls that reflected the rays of the hot sun above. Katherine got out of the car and went over to it, peering through the surrounding iron bars. It reminded her of England and, not for the first time, she wondered why she had ever accepted Edouard de Hallet’s legacy.
Beshir opened up the back of the mini-bus and pulled her luggage out on to the pavement. The bags were covered with a film of white dust and, looking at it, Katherine thought that she too must be in very much the same way. If her hair had been shorter she could have washed it, but as it was it would have to wait until she reached Sidi Behn Ahmed. She made a little gesture of distaste, disliking her grimy appearance, and entered the hotel with resolution. A good, cool wash would be a help anyway, and a complete change of clothes.
The entrance to the hotel was just like walking into an oriental bazaar. Piles of carpets covered the flooring and curtains of beads hung in gay profusion across all the doors. One or two uncomfortable carved chairs stood round the walls, separated by copper trays that served as tables. Only the narrow vista of the bar that led out of the hallway spoilt the exotic impression. It was as dimly lit as any American equivalent and full of Europeans.
Katherine stood for an impatient moment, waiting for the receptionist to notice her. When at last he looked up, she opened her mouth to speak, but the words died before she ever uttered them. He looked straight beyond her, over her shoulder, and she found herself turning to look also. And there, in the doorway of the bar, looking like a thundercloud, was Dr. Kreistler.
He stood there for a long moment, and although she was accustomed to irate Sisters — indeed, she had been one herself when her own superior had been away — she had to admit that none of them had ever made her feel so uncomfortable as he was doing now. One hand crept up to her collar and she wished earnestly that she had at least had time to change.
“Well, Miss Lane?” he said at last.
She tried to pull herself together. What was it to him what she did?
“Dr. Kreistler!” she breathed, and promptly wished she had said nothing at all. She had sounded so surprised and so very unsure of herself.
“In person,” he agreed silkily. He crossed the room towards her, his shoes completely silent on the thick carpets. He looked taller and capable of almost anything at all, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she stopped herself from shrinking away from him against the reception desk. “I thought my telegram was quite explicit,” he went on.
She recollected his telegram with a wave of anger.
“Explicit!” she stormed at him. “It was quite clear as to meaning, if that’s what you mean!”
His eyes glinted dangerously.
“I am glad to hear it,” he said softly, and she was suddenly afraid again.
“You had no right—” she began. She stopped, coming face to face with the blank wall of his disapproval. “I—I won’t be shouted at!” she said instead, and was horrified to hear the distinctly sulky note that had entered her voice.
“I have no intention of shouting at you,” he replied. “I don’t shout at people. But I agree that this is not the place to continue this discussion. We’ll go and take a walk in the gardens.” His hand closed round her wrist in a purposeful manner and perforce she had to follow him out again into the sunshine.
He let her go at the foot of the statue and she rubbed her wrist resentfully, hating him.
“Have I hurt you?” he demanded.
“No,” she admitted, incurably truthful. “But—”
To her surprise her grinned.
“But you couldn’t resist making the most of it!” he supplied for her. “You’re really very feminine, aren’t you, Miss Lane?”
She didn’t know quite how to answer that so she looked down at her shoes instead and saw that they too were looking travel-stained and badly in need of a clean. When she looked up again the faint gleam of humour had gone.
“I am an extremely busy man,” he said coldly. “At the moment I am running six local clinics apart from the central hospital at Sidi Behn Ahmed. I haven’t got the time to go chasing round the country after errant females who have more money than sense!”
Katherine’s eyes opened wide. Well, that was the first time anybody had ever accused her of that!
“Nobody asked you to go chasing round the country, Dr. Kreistler,” she said with dignity.
He sighed.
“You are not now living in England,” he told her patiently. “This is a Muslim country where women do not travel alone without escorts.”
“I had Beshir,” she objected dogg
edly.
“Beshir! Beshir!” he repeated scornfully. “Why on earth couldn’t you have done what you were told? I should have come north for you as soon as possible, if that was what you really wanted to do. As it is I have had to leave a nurse in charge of the hospital because no other arrangements could be made at such short notice, and I am not in the habit of having to neglect my patients for anyone at all!”
That she could well believe,
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling a little stupid.
Surprisingly, this seemed to anger him still more. “Sorrow is a very easy emotion!” he snorted. “It will be on your head if anything happens while I am away.”
Katherine leaned against the statue. She was hot and tired and she was becoming aware that the dust that had got into everything else was also choking up her throat in the most uncomfortable way.
“How did you know,” she asked in flat tones, “that I had come to Kairouan?”
He looked away from her, far across the gardens.
“I rang them up at Hammamet and they told me,” he answered. “They seemed rather upset that you should choose to leave them so rapidly,” he added dryly.
Oh, were they! To her dismay a tear trickled down her cheek, and when she brushed it impatiently away she knew that the mark of it could be clearly seen against the dust on her cheeks. She turned to him with anxiety in her eyes.
“You will allow me to work at the hospital, won’t you?” she insisted. “I told them that that was what I was going to do.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I expect we can find you something,” he agreed reluctantly. “But there is no room for the amateur when it comes to a person’s health. You are not to mess around with things you don’t understand, is that clear?”
She wanted to tell him then that she was a nurse. Why hadn’t the de Hallets told him that? she wondered. And why couldn’t she tell him now? But she couldn’t. His attention had turned away from her and back to the hotel.