Desert Doctor

by Winspear, Violet

  “It is an old custom in Morocco,” said the Sheikh. “Our pleasures to be fully savoured must be made distinct, each from the other, and while we eat it is good to smell the food, but not so when the moment comes for us to relax and converse.”

  Madeline pressed her slippered toes into the pile of the carpet. Never in England had she imagined that she would dine in such enchanting surroundings, in the company of a man like Victor Tourelle, the guest of a powerful Sheikh and his beautiful wife. After-dinner coffee was poured into fragile cups in patterned silver holders, while the smoke of Turkish cigarettes made blue patterns in the air. Madeline wanted time to stand still, and her heart jarred with the realization that it couldn’t when in a while Victor shot a glance at his wristwatch.

  “I fear that we must leave in about another quarter of an hour,” said he regretfully. “Time wears wings on these pleasant occasions, alas.”

  “Before you leave let us go to the roof to see Jezara by starlight,” their host suggested. “I am sure Miss Page would appreciate such a scene.”

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled with eagerness, her fingers slipping into Victor’s hand as he assisted her to her feet. The four of them made for the salle d’attente where a staircase led directly to the roof, which was flat and used for recreational purposes as in most Moroccan households. There were tubs of flowers scenting the air, and the stars overhead were so ardent, so near that they shed a soft radiance on to the domes, minarets, and bastions of Jezara, a place out of Eastern fable. A light breeze caressed Madeline’s neck, and she could feel Victor beside her at the parapet. “The Arabian stars are like flowers, near enough to be plucked,” he murmured.

  Each star facet was clearly discernible against the dark velvet of the sky, and Madeline stretched out a hand, laughter or something else catching in her throat. “So close, yet for ever out of reach,” she lamented.

  “Each star is a lover’s hope,” she was told by the Sheikh, “and when a star falls out of the heavens … ah, did you see that one? How swiftly it fell, how quickly it died !”

  A strange coldness feathered over Madeline’s skin, and when she gave a slight shiver Victor said at once that they must be on their way.

  The evening had been unforgettable for Madeline, crowned by a delightful surprise when, before she departed with Victor,

  Dalina and her husband asked her to accept a pretty flask of jasmine perfume; silver leaves and enamelled flowers decorated the flask, and Madeline flushed with pleasure when it was presented to her. “Thank you both,” she smiled. “For the perfume and for a most enjoyable evening.”

  “For us, too, these hours have sped on light wings,” her host gallantly assured her. “Leyltak saida, Miss Page.”

  They sped home under the stars, each wrapped in deep thought, the desert stretching away in dim mystery at either side of them. When they reached the villa Victor escorted her to the top of the steps and pressed the bell. Madeline held outher hand, meeting his eyes that were softened so magically by the starlight. “Thank you, Doctor, for introducing me to Dalina and her husband,” she said. “They’re fine people, and I’m proud to know them.”

  Victor took her hand, and she held her breath as he put his lips against the inside of her wrist. “I am sure they feel the same way about you, little one. Now hurry to bed. Bonne nuit!”

  The villa door opened and she went inside. Her magical evening was over.

  CHAPTER VIII

  BROOKE was all for going to Mazagan with his aunt and Madeline — adding for her ears alone that she wasn’t going to escape him as easily as she thought. Amalia wanted her niece to go with them, but Donette made some smooth excuses and evidently had no intention of being prised away from Victor.

  “Can I trust you to behave yourself ?” Amalia insisted on the Friday evening before their journey to the coast.

  “ I promise to be an angel, tante.” Donette embraced her aunt and gazed blandly at Brooke over Amalia’s brocaded shoulder. “You will only be gone about a month, and I shall probably drive into Mazagan once or twice to see you.”

  “I don’t know why you won’t come with us, Donette,”

  Amalia frowned at her niece. “It isn’t as though you see all that much of Victor, the lad’s always busy. And I can’t say I’m any too keen on that Lestrade set you’re mixing with.”

  Donette strolled behind the cocktail-bar and made herself a Manhattan; the ice in the glass glittered cool as her smile.

  “Raoul has plenty of money,” she retorted. “He wants to marry me, as a matter of fact.”

  Madeline, playing the piano quietly to herself, missed a note. So Lestrade had proposed to Donette ! What a pity he wasn’t the one with a title in the offing, for they were ideally suited; both of them were rather shallow and incapable of real warmth of heart!

  “All the money in the world won’t buy happiness, and I hate to hear you talking as — as though you’d marry this Lestrade man for just the worldly things he can give you,” Amalia re-proved.

  “Ah, but worldly things are so nice, tante.” Donette savoured her drink, adding amusedly : “However, I promise not to elope with Raoul while you are at Mazagan.” She came from behind the bar and perched on one of the high stools, her svelte figure encased in a silk cat-suit, her hair swirled to the crown of her head and secured by a silver barrette. On her right hand there flashed a scarab ring which kept changing colour from green to raspberry, then to the orange of an East-tern sunset. “Sweet as Raoul is, I have other plans,” she added softly, her glance resting on Madeline’s face.

  Madeline, who played the piano quite attractively by ear, had wandered into “Deep Purple”. Brooke leant against the piano and hummed the tune. “Say, I’ll be darned glad to get this plaster off my foot,” he exclaimed. “We’ll be able to swim at Mazagan, honey. I might even manage to partner you in a dance.”

  She met his grin and returned it. It was no use, she couldn’t stay annoyed with Brooke, though she was going to see to it that he forced no more wild kisses on her. She wasn’t a prude, but she wanted more from a man than passion.

  “My ankle’s being cut from its shackle tomorrow,” Brooke said. “We’ll drive to the hospital just after lunch.”

  “We?” Madeline raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Sure. You can pop in and see the kids. I know you get a kick out of them.”

  This was true, but Donette was watching her with narrowed eyes and she was half inclined to cry off. Yet why should she?

  Her hands went down hard on the piano keys as she recalled the merciless glitter of Victor’s eyes, the way he had bitten out words; “I will certainly assure Donette that she has no need to regard you in the light of a — rival.”

  “Well, are you going to drive with me to the hospital tomorrow?” Brooke leant down and scanned her face. “I promise to be a good boy.”

  Though he spoke softly, Donette caught his remark. “Ah, does he misbehave when you are alone with him, Madeline ?”

  she drawled. “Personally I think a little diablerie is permissible in a man if his intentions are honourable … and I am sure they are, eh, Brooke?”

  “Madeline knows they are,” he responded dryly.

  “Do you hear that, tante?” Donette glittered into a smile.

  “I do believe Brooke and our petite Madeline are in love. Ah, it must be so, see how she blushes ! How sweet, to be able still to blush !”

  She made it sound like the height of schoolgirl foolishness, but Brooke got back at her by remarking, with more truth than he probably realized, that the luckiest men were those with girls who could do so. Donette’s lips, magnet-red this evening, curled into a scornful little smile, but in a while she asked Madeline to play a certain favourite tune for her, an indication that she was pleased the English girl had taken the hint she had handed out the other day. Madeline was welcome to Brooke !

  She played the dance tune requested of her, then she slipped from the piano bench, took a look over Amalia’s shoulder at the seria
l she was reading, and a minute later said good night and went up to her room. But she didn’t go directly to bed.

  After taking a tepid shower and slipping into a short night-dress and a floral wrap, she wandered on to the balcony and sat down in the cane armchair placed there. Moths fluttered on the balcony, attracted by the lamp glowing beyond the windows, and cicadas were ceaselessly ecstatic down there in the dark, rustling garden. She breathed Africa, exotic and ageless, and knew she welcomed the thought of this trip to Mazagan, it offered both change and escape … escape? Strange that that word should have come into her mind, it implied that she wanted to run away from something.

  The garden breezes, laden with a potent mixture of scents, blew cool against throat and face, and she thought of home and how all this would strike her when she was back in England where the grass and growth smelled green and damp with rain.

  No doubt this place would gradually fade to a dream, but part of the dream would never be forgotten by her. She knew that as surely as she knew the sun would rise in the morning to gild the Bled with its almost savage lustre. The Bled, wild, rocky, and uncompromising as the men out here who dwelt in the hills, in the black tents, and the Moorish houses with their high, enigmatic walls that hid an inner sumptuousness.

  How would it suit Donette to live in a Moorish house?

  Would pieces of modern furniture filter in, along with those bright daubs called modern paintings? Or would she persuade Victor to leave it to go and live in a pastel villa? Madeline hoped not. The hawk might be persuaded to accept captivity, but he wouldn’t be at home in a gilded cage.

  The following morning was devoted to packing. Madeline’s was soon done, and afterwards she amused herself by watching Malia argue with her maid about what she should take to the coast.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Harrington are bound to be there right now, Miss Amalia,” Louise pointed out, “and I do think you ought to take your beaded brocade. Mrs. Harrington is such a very smart lady.”

  “I’m going to Mazagan to relax and enjoy myself,” Amalia replied, “not to go traipsing to dinner parties.”

  “All the same, Miss Amalia, I think I ought to pack you a couple of your best formals.”

  “No, Louise ! ”

  “Now watch your blood pressure, Miss Amalia.” Into the pigskin wardrobe-case went the gleaming formals, while Louise further remarked that some accompanying jewellery was also needed.

  Madeline nursed her knees and smiled to herself as Amalia marched, muttering, to the wall safe hidden behind a frame of antique Egyptian embroidery. She opened the safe and brought out her jewel box, and after selecting a triple pearl necklet and a set of jets to wear with the dresses Louise insisted she take to Mazagan, Amalia took out a slender chain on which hung a sapphire shaped like a heart. “I had this as a girl,” she mused, holding the chain across her hands so that the sapphire lay in the pool of her palm. “It would look pretty on you, Madeline, and I’d like you to accept it.”

  “Amalia, I — I don’t think you ought to give it to me,”

  Madeline stammered.

  “If you’re thinking of Donette, my dear child, then let me assure you she will be amply supplied with worldly goods when I made my exit. In any case, this trinket is hardly her sort of thing, and I rather think — yes, this sapphire is almost the colour of your eyes.” Amalia took hold of Madeline’s hand and dropped the pendant into it. “Now I’ll be offended if you say once more that I shouldn’t give it to you — you’ll take away from me the pleasure of giving.”

  “You’re a dear, and I’ll treasure the pendant ! ” Madeline gave her employer a hug, and decided then and there to wear her gift with the Moygashel blouse and pleated white skirt in which she had decided to go to the hospital that afternoon.

  She added a dash of jasmine perfume as well, laying herself wide open for an impudent remark from Brooke. “What are you doing, testing my will-power?” he grinned, as the car sped through the heat of the afternoon, making a breeze that whipped in pleasantly and fluttered Madeline’s hair. “Mm, jasmine ! Very exotic and Eastern. Is the East getting into your bloodstream, honey ?”

  She responded with a smile, but kept quiet about the donor of the perfume. He had already exhibited a great deal of curiosity about the evening she had spent at Jezara, and treasured memories were not always for sharing.

  “I find Morocco a very fascinating place,” she replied, her gaze upon the Bled that had lost its brief mantle of flowers and was now burned to a blackish brown.

  “What about this idea of Max’s, that you train for work at Green Palms ?” Brooke touched her wrist. “Anything to it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Doesn’t Tourelle go along with the idea?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I think he’s right. The idea appeals to you because you like kids … well, I can think of a much more pleasant way to help you fulfil your ambitions in that direction.”

  “Brooke, you’re the limit ! ” She gave an exasperated laugh.

  “You never give up trying, do you?”

  His impudent gaze dwelt on the pretty line made by her teeth as she laughed. “I could spend my life just looking at you,” he drawled.

  “Sounds like it, you devil !”

  “That’s hopeful ! ” He nodded his chestnut head and wore a lopsided grin. “Women are kindly disposed towards the devil.

  They know he doesn’t expect them to behave like angels all the time.”

  “I should hope such a thing wouldn’t be expected by the mildest husband,” she retorted. “We women are only human.”

  “Human, but far more complicated than men. No matter how sure of himself a guy is, he’s never all that sure of a woman. I guess that’s one of the things about you that gets me. You’re a deep one. Madeline mia. A man would never grow tired of getting to know you, not even when he gets around to celebrating his diamond wedding with you.”

  “Maybe I’ll stay single,” she rejoined, without a smile.

  “Make do with a career.”

  “You — don’t mean that?” He, too, lost his smile; his voice went raw as he added : “You’re made for marriage, not for the cold companionship of a career. You’ve everything that should be passed on to a pair of lively youngsters — swell looks, a nice disposition, intelligence — though, dam it, you aren’t talking all that intelligently at the moment !”

  “I disagree, Brooke.” Her fingers played nervously with the purse on her lap. “Too many girls marry just for the sake of doing so. They like the man, but love is something different.”

  “Really ?” His eyes had narrowed. “Go on with this interesting analysis of love. What comes next?”

  She glanced away from him, out towards the smoky heat that rose out of the Bled. Cracks gaped like sardonic grins, while tamarisk and juniper bushes had a grey-green look, the sap drained out of them. “Love,” she said, “is a sense of being really alive and wanting to live with one man to the utmost.

  There has to be complete communication, otherwise you’re married but not mated.”

  “You’re asking for perfection, huh, otherwise marriage is out?”

  “Brooke,” her eyes came back to his face; they were serious and deeply blue as the sapphire heart glowing on its gold chain in the V of her silk blouse, “I’ve worked with women who had obviously married because it’s the done thing. People have a tendency, even now, to regard unmarried women as second-rate citizens; they take it for granted that such women are discards out of the matrimonial market — which is often quite un-true — consequently there’s an element of panic attached to marriage for the majority of women. A man proposes. He’s pleasant, wants her, all that sort of thing, and most important of all he’ll save her from that ‘old maid’ tag if no one else comes along with a proposal. Maybe a good percentage of women grow to love the men they marry, but how can anyone be sure this will happen?”

  “They make it happen, honey. Anyway, haven’t you heard that too fierce a love is oft
en consumed in its own flame?”

  Brooke flickered a quizzical eyebrow. “I know you’re hooked on the idea of finding your soulmate, but that’s really for the birds. Human beings have to be realistic about these things, and I’d bet my bottom dollar most married women wouldn’t change places with the single ones. A synthetic heaven is better than no heaven at all.”

  No heaven at all !

  The words stabbed because in a way they were true. Of course they were, and they blunted the edge of Madeline’s argument. She was young, that was why she was able to talk so courageously about staying single. But would she feel the same when she reached Aunt Cissie’s age? Would not the barren years rise up to mock her for her youthful bravado?

  Her eyes met Brooke’s; she looked lost and rather bleak, but he did no more than press her hands within the warmth of his. “I love you for having a mind of your own,” he smiled, “but I’m bent on changing it.”

  They arrived at the hospital, shaded by the tall, feathery palms with their plaited trunks, and Madeline left Brooke to get “unshackled” and made her way to the children’s wing. To her delighted surprise a party was in progress. Sister Yamila spotted her and hurried over to explain smilingly that whenever it was a doctor’s birthday — Dr. Fouad’s upon this occasion — they celebrated by giving a party in the children’s wing.

  Each child had been provided with a paper hat, a windmill on a stick, and various goodies. At the moment Faris was entertaining the children by creating all sorts of shadow animals on a screen, using his lean, expressive hands and plenty of imagination. The children yelled with delight as he made an Arab on a camel, then an elephant waggling its trunk. Madeline sat down on the foot of a bed and accepted a piece of iced cake and a glass of orange juice. She smiled hullo at several doctors and nurses who had popped in to watch the fun, and she wondered fleetingly if Victor would put in an appearance.