“They would not shoot me nor I them,” Marwan said. “Raiding is honorable. Only common robbers kill you.”
When it came time to join the raid, Samir rode without euphoria. There were certain things about the Bedouin life that would always remain a mystery to him. The certainty of purpose—there was no indecision in their character.
He didn’t shrink from danger—that would have been unthinkable—but he didn’t take pleasure in riding over rocks and rubble to outwit their pursuers or crawling on his belly to reach the prey unnoticed. At night, when they made camp and lit a fire with ghada sticks and that magical stillness settled over the violet-colored dunes, he yearned to go home and resume his life. Homesickness, held at bay for so long, now wrecked his powers of concentration. He dreamed of home and his father. He held imaginary conversations with his sister, speaking aloud when they were riding fast and no one could hear him.
“How long am I meant to stay with you?” he asked Marwan one day.
“You could have left anytime,” said Marwan, but he seemed surprised and hurt by the question.
“You mean I could have left right away?” Samir was shocked.
“Yes. If you really had wanted to.”
“But you didn’t tell me that.”
“But you never asked.”
It would have been the most natural thing in the world to say right then that he wanted to go home, but he knew Marwan would take it personally and he couldn’t hurt his friend. He would tell him soon, but not right away.
The next night Marwan awoke him before midnight and coaxed him to ride with him alone on a raid. “We’ll bring back a camel each. We can do it.”
“Your mother and father would be heartsick to find you’d gone alone, Marwan,” he said, stalling for time. It was a foolhardy idea.
“If you don’t wish to go with me, I will go alone,” he said.
“Wait and go with the men.” Samir tried to sound casual and reasonable, although he didn’t feel casual at all.
“If you don’t go with me, I will go alone,” said Marwan defiantly, and Samir rose wearily from his cozy sheepskin and cursed the lack of supervision for this hotheaded boy.
“I will go,” he said, hoping that they would find nothing and return to camp by morning.
They rode for three hours without seeing any campfires or other signs of life. As dawn was approaching, Marwan drew rein and came up next to Samir. “Now we must hide or we will be seen and our mission will be obvious.”
“Why is it obvious?” said Samir. “We could be just two boys with nothing on our minds.”
Marwan was insulted. “That’s impossible.”
They dismounted and hid out behind a sand dune. They had just pulled out a fistful of cheese when Samir saw a shadow cross in front of him. Two savage figures approached and stood just a few feet away.
“How did you arrive,” said Marwan, stunned.
“We didn’t arrive,” said one of the men derisively. “We were here all along.”
Samir remembered something Marwan had told him—unmounted wayfarers are usually robbers and murderers.
“What do you want?” Marwan asked, and his voice was tremulous.
“You tell us,” said one man and laughed.
“Ask God,” said the other.
“What tribe do you belong to?” persisted Marwan.
“Beni Nufud,” replied the man, and this time they both laughed.
This insolent answer seemed to settle it for Marwan. He pulled out his Mauser and shot twice, felling both the startled men. However, one of them, his face full of rage, was able to pull out his own pistol and shot back. Marwan cried out defiantly, “La! No!” and his boyish hand shot out to ward off the bullet that exploded in his face. Before the robber could shoot again, Samir grabbed the Mauser and emptied it in both the men. His heart seemed to be racing up and down his body and found no spot that could accommodate its violent beating.
He felt uncontrollable anger toward Marwan. “You little fool. You little fool. Why did you have to come here? Why? Why?” He shook his blood brother, willing him to respond. Marwan just lay still, his life fluids soaking into his clothes. Samir rode back to camp with Marwan propped in front of him, cradled in his arms. It was slow going, but he couldn’t have left him there alone.
Throughout the ride, he crooned the cheerful songs Marwan had taught him. He must hear me, he thought. He must. He didn’t have a clear memory of all that happened next. Only that they wanted to take the body from him and he resisted with all his might. He felt horribly responsible for the tragedy. He should have asked to go home—this would have distracted Marwan from his quest for danger. He shouldn’t have given in to Marwan and ridden with him. He should have persuaded him to stay at the camp. He could have saved his friend. Over and over, he heard that startled cry—“La! No!”—and saw that small palm thrust out, pushing death away.
Within days he was returned to his family. He asked for Marwan’s curved knife, his rhumb, and kept it close to him day and night. It had the smell of Marwan and the sweat of his hand on the handle. It was the last thing Samir touched at night and the first in the morning. Even in later years, when his months with the Bedouin were nothing more than a distant memory, touching the knife gave him comfort.
20.
I KNOW WHAT HE SEES IN YOU.
A hulking Botsford guard was running in front of him and Samir stopped to dribble, blocking the tackle with his shoulder. Each time he moved the ball, he looked around quickly, but there was no free man, so he sped up and pretended to charge for the goal. The guard grinned, baring oversized teeth.
“You large boys should be playing rugby,” hissed Samir.
The guard continued to smile but his eyes remained on the ball. Samir saw Phillips fifteen feet to his left and did a little quick step, passing with the outside of his foot, then ran upfield. As the ball was returned to him, he grinned at his bewildered guard. In that fatal second, a green Botsford shoulder sped by, a foot hooked the rolling ball, steered it away, and kicked it high in the air. It rose sharply, sailed overhead, and landed at the feet of the opposing inside center, who scored.
“Pride goeth before a fall,” croaked Phillips at his side.
Samir shrugged. “It’s what I deserved. But it’s not over yet.” He looked up at the clump of FGS girls who always attended home games and served tea afterward to the visiting team. In the second tier, next to Margaret—they were always together—sat his cousin Nadia with an expression . . . was it an ill-concealed smile?
He had the ball and kicked it far, running after it to the action. Stefano, the right wing, killed it with his chest, dribbled toward the Botsford goal, and lost it. Samir caught up with the advancing attacker and lunged at him, forcing a change of direction. The boy tripped the ball up his leg and batted it to a waiting teammate with an inhuman rotation of his knee.
As the receiver prepared to kick, Samir was so close that the ball smashed into his knees and ricocheted to the middle of the field. It was about to bounce again but he dove horizontally, raising his head just enough to give the ball a solid send-off. Stefano took off and scored as Samir hit the ground in a painful slide, scraping the side of his face. From the ground he looked up at the second tier. She had not seen any part of it! She was glancing at a book! Margaret pointed to her cheek to indicate his wound, frowned with concern, and then blew him a kiss. Just then the horn signaled the end of the second quarter and the teams retired for halftime.
The FBS boys had two moral obligations during their stay at the school. The first was to replant the olive trees that the Turks had burned to fuel the railroad. The second duty, optional and more personal, was to purchase (with money earned doing menial tasks) the sturdy chairs made by the orphans at Schnellers for the dining room. During sporting events, Samir, wearing a wooden tray suspended from his neck, sold ice cream wafers to th
e crowd of locals who attended the games.
Margaret waved. “We’ll take two, please,” she called across the aisle. He finished a transaction and climbed to the row below the girls. “That’s a nasty scrape,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “But for a splendid cause. You’re marvelous with the ball,” she gushed then reached down to him. “Here, let me blot your wound. My handkerchief is clean.” She dabbed at his cheek, wetting the cloth with her tongue. “Don’t mind me, they say saliva has healing powers. Well, it must be true. Animals use it, don’t they? They’re always licking, licking, licking over any little wound.”
He was enjoying himself and Nadia was having a fit. She was bouncing her fist against her chin in agitation and looking away as if the scene was too much to believe. Samir grinned and gave Margaret the wafer. Her hand lingered on his cheek and then on his fingers as she took her ice cream. “Here’s a pound,” she said. “Keep the change.”
“That’s much too much.” Nadia spoke for the first time. “The wafers are only thirty piasters.”
“It’s to buy the orphans’ chairs, isn’t it?” Margaret waved away the change. “Perhaps this will make his quota.” She pronounced it qwoatah, which made it sound silly.
“It’s too much money,” Nadia said accusingly, as if Samir was taking advantage of Margaret.
“Well, it’s my money, now, isn’t it?” said Margaret.
Nadia shrugged.
“I’m doing the tea later,” Margaret whispered, dabbing once more at Samir’s cheek. “I baked the scones myself. Stop by.”
“I will.”
“That was a daring save. You know what they say about soccer players, don’t you?”
“No. What do they say?”
“My father says it’s a sport that requires neither height nor heft so much as valor, perseverance, and daring. Nadia, wasn’t it daring—diving into the air like that?”
“I missed it,” she said. Her jaw was set and two red spots showed on her cheeks. Samir looked at the book on her lap.
Margaret looked at one and then the other. “He wanted you especially to see it,” she chided Nadia, whose mouth became a thin red line of displeasure.
Samir stepped down to another tier. “I thought the girls were here to lift our morale,” he said lightly.
“No,” insisted Margaret, realizing she had hit on something interesting, “you were watching for Nadia’s reaction. You looked at her twice from the field.”
“Perhaps he was looking at you,” Nadia shot back.
“That would be lovely, but it’s you who have hurt his feelings.”
Samir smiled enigmatically, looking above their heads at the crowd. A slight gust of wind ruffled his hair and he sighed and lifted his chin.
Her peevishness is no longer charming, he thought, stepping back onto the field. She’s grown up. Her mouth has grown up, too. If she would relax and forget herself, her lips would . . . part open from the . . . sheer bursting weight. He felt warm. It took no effort at all to imagine the healthy pink glow of her face over the rest of her body. Over her long strong legs. Her parted lips, glossy with desire, insinuated themselves into his brain. He bit down hard on his own lower lip and looked for the ball.
It was wrong to think of her in that way. It was disloyal. It was second-rate. They lost the game.
“You can go to hell,” Nadia said and then slumped down in defeat. “How could you?”
“What are you so huffed up about? If you have no interest in him, what’s the difference?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Yes, it is. Perhaps you’re afraid of rejection. If you had some idea of winning him, you’d show your true feelings.”
“Oh, Margaret, just stop it.”
“As it turns out, your way is a good strategy. The idea is dawning over his brain like the sun rising over the Mount of Olives.”
“What idea?”
“The idea of you.” Foolishly, Nadia allowed that thought to root in her imagination. The look on her face was enough to encourage Margaret. “The burning issue is, why you? Why should this perfectly splendid boy/man be smitten with you? You’re not a classical beauty.”
The words stung. Once. Twice. Margaret had hit on the exact issue that did burn in her heart. Samir did, at times, act friendly. Was it just that she was familiar to him? And if by chance he was deluded into liking her, what would he do when the delusion was over? “Margaret, shut up.”
“I won’t, and you should listen because I know what he sees in you.”
She was hooked again. “Oh?”
“You have the type of body . . . how can I put it? Long legs never hurt. And at the thighs, where everyone else drifts into wayward masses, you’re hard as a boy with a high little ass. Then there’s your mouth. It’s full and moist. It dips and curves. Coming at the end of your rather solemn face, it’s a shocker. There’s this irresistible juxtaposition of seriousness hiding a wanton nature. You’re a mystery.”
“Margaret, you’re daft. You really think Samir has figured all this out?”
“Not consciously. It just works on him. Face it, luv, you’ve got it.”
“What is it?”
“You know . . . like Clara Bow. It’s a quality. You can’t quite define it.”
It was so tempting to believe it all. And so utterly stupid.
21.
AH, LOVE . . .
Suzanne Lenglen, the glamorous French tennis star, displayed little brown moons under her eyes, suggesting that she came to the court without sleep after a night of carnival.’ ” Margaret drew in her breath with appreciation. She was reading from an outdated issue of Time sent by the Society of Friends in Indiana. “Do you think a night of carnival means petting, kissing, or more?”
“Petting and kissing. Not more,” answered Nadia, putting out her palm to stop an imaginary love-crazed suitor.
“Give me a little kiss, will ya, huh?” Margaret sang and vamped. That song, together with “There’s Yes! Yes! in Your Eyes,” were the popular imports played over the shortwave radio.
“What are you gonna miss, will ya, huh?” answered Nadia. They fell on each other, laughing helplessly.
From old issues of Collier’s and Life, their bibles of sophistication, the girls compiled a little glossary of slang: “the cat’s pyjamas” denoted ultimate desirability; “nuts” expressed disgust; “lousy” was something contemptible; “to carry a torch” was to suffer from unrequited love; “for crying out loud” was the ultimate expression of exasperation (Margaret’s favorite); and “crush” was a word Nadia finally put to use in May on one of the sweet spring nights when the spirit wells up with the pure joy of the physical universe.
She stood alone in the foyer, half-hidden by an urn filled with bushy flowering red jasmine. The flowers had been gathered that morning to delight the parents who had come for the recitation. She sighed, filled with inexplicable longing, and fingered the ragged paper in her hand on which was scribbled Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach.”
The proper recitation of poetry was important at FGS and once a month the parents came to listen.
“For crying out loud,” said Margaret, “everyone goes fast asleep at these things. The Muslims are indifferent because we never include their poets. The English poets say very little about the afterlife, which is as important to them as this vale of tears.”
On an evening just like this, after Nadia had recited all seven stanzas of Tennyson’s “Sir Galahad,” her grandmother kissed her cheek and muttered into the air, “Reap the wind and harvest nothing.” Her way of saying Nadia spent time on activities with no lasting benefits.
Miss Smythe said if they hoped to sit for the matriculation exams, they must be well-read. They must know the great literature of the world. “The great literature of the world,” shrieked Margaret, “is either crying over spilled milk or making too
much of everything. Life is very simple, really.”
“You can make fun of it because you’re English,” offered Nadia wisely. “For us it’s something to admire.”
From her safe nook in the foyer, she could hear the boys finishing their recitation. That meant the girls would begin. She would have to take her place in the auditorium. “ ‘Ah, love . . . Ah, love . . . Ah, love . . .’ ”—she spoke with exaggerated emotion—“ ‘let us be true to one another for the world, which seems / To lie before us like a land of dreams / So various . . . so? . . . beautiful . . . so new / Hath really . . . hath really . . .’ ooh, what does it bloody have?”
“It ‘hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,’ ” came an unequivocal, deeply masculine answer from the other side of the foliage.
She sucked in her breath, bit down on her offending lips and waited. To be heard using that word! She knew that bloody, while it sounded harmless to her, was quite coarse to the English. An eternity was perceived but only several seconds passed. Her mouth felt dry as a gully. “ ‘Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain . . .’ ” The voice now had an urgency. He was trying to get her to continue, to answer with the next poetic line.
She unclenched her jaw and let go of her lips. “ ‘And we are here as on a darkling plain,’ ” she said timidly without any of the expression the line demanded, “ ‘Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight / Where . . .’ ” What came next?
“ ‘Where ignorant armies clash by night,’ ” came the resonant answer.
It was no voice she recognized. Was it a parent? Perhaps an intruder! She began to tiptoe away, hoping to reach the door of the auditorium—from which she should not have strayed—without facing . . . him. She felt an incriminating awkwardness in every step.
“You stumbled on ‘so various, so beautiful, so new,’ etc. That’s where your problem begins.” The voice reached out and stopped her in midflight.
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