by Gerry Belle
The final straw had been an evening lamb roast in the desert. Zhara had them driven to Ma’in, a beautiful natural-mineral, hot-spring in a deeply-carved ravine in the desert. It was a lovely place to relax, take the waters and enjoy the wonderful service of the spa.
Zhara had planned to surprise her friend with a sumptuous feast in the palm groves. The hotel staff had erected a Bedouin tent and laid Persian carpets down on the sand. A lamb had been wrapped in banana palm leaves and buried in the sand with hot coals to roast for hours until it fell in succulent chunks from the bones. Vegetables and other delights had been roasted with it and an array of rices and local specialities prepared for the guests to savor.
What one might not know about the Middle East is that feral cats are everywhere. Since her friend had dogs, Zhara never thought anything about the cats. Once they arrived at the party tent for the lamb roast, Zhara settled comfortably onto one of the many pillows and began to enjoy the spicy mint tea the staff provided.
Before too long a shriek of panic rang out. “Shew! Shew! Shew!”, came the shrill cries of someone who sounded deranged with fear.
Sure enough, it was Zhara’s friend. She stood to the side of the tent flinging her hands out in enormous sweeping-motions at the low-slung feral cats that had crept into the tent enticed by the scent of roasting meat. The next few hours were a never-ending trial of shrieks and startling screams any time her friend laid eyes on a cat. The staff ran to get a gardener who then patrolled the grounds with a few palm fronds trying to wave off the army of half-starved feral cats that invaded the grounds. That would never work. Food was a far greater incentive then a few flaps of a palm frond was off putting.
In the past, Zhara had simply thrown the bones to the cats - who then dragged their prizes off into the palm groves to gnaw on in ecstasy. It was what everyone did. Except, of course, her friend - whom Zhara finally fixed a plate for and escorted back into the confines of the resort.
When Zhara returned to the tent to finish her own meal, the grateful attendants plied her with delicacies until she was so stuffed she could barely move. It had definitely been a memorable, if horrifyingly embarrassing night.
The next day as they left the resort, Zhara tipped the staff who had helped her. Her friend, now quickly descending into the “acquaintance” level of Zhara’s contacts, saw this and decided she too, should tip. Unwilling to touch the hands of the staff, the friend dropped her coins from half a foot above their hands, allowing the monies to fly willy-nilly all over the entry. Zhara simply smiled an apologetic smile at the stone-faced staff and turned and left. There was nothing she could do that would amend the damage her friend had done with her rude, uncouth gestures. This was why some people should never travel. They gave tourists and whatever country they were from, a bad name.
When Zhara deposited the “now acquaintance” at the airport for her flight home, she hugged her perfunctorily and wished her a good flight and never spoke to her again. She would never be out and out rude, the way the woman had been to the people of the country she had wished to see, but Zhara would never again embrace her as a friend. Her close-mindedness had been too openly wounding to those in the country she’d visited to allow Zhara to ever hold her in high esteem again.
They said you never really knew someone until you’d traveled with them. Zhara found this to be completely true. Travel brought out the core beliefs of a person and laid them bare to view.
Chapter Four
Relaxation
Since the drive time to the capital city of Amman would have been about the same as that to the hotel Zhara had chosen on the Dead Sea, and in the interest of basking in the sun as soon as possible, the car headed straight to the resort.
After a thorough search at the entry gates with a mirrored pole to check for under-car bombs, their white Audi sedan pulled up in front of the hotel. A discrete call from the driver to the hotel desk had put the staff on notice that a VIP was arriving. When the car pulled to a halt at the entrance, bellhops took the bags, the hotel manager came to greet them with warm, damp clothes to refresh themselves with and small cups of mint tea were brought while the check-in process was expedited in the lobby.
They were shown to their rooms in minutes and Zhara was delighted to see that they’d been placed in the sea-front rooms she’d requested. A large balcony hung out over the pool area from the top floor and an unimpeded view of the Dead Sea met her gaze.
Asking Beatriz to grab her swimsuit, cover-up and sunscreen-spray from the bags, Zhara was ensconced in the plush lounge chairs, face turned to the sun, in no time. A bottle of water was pushed into an ice bucket at her side and a large pair of very dark sunglasses shaded her eyes. A white, finely-woven straw hat lay nearby waiting to shade delicate skin from the intense Middle Eastern sun.
In the distance, the West Bank of Israel was nothing but a thin blue line of hills across the glimmering blue-gray of the sea’s salt-water expanse.
It was a strange thing that Zhara had noticed about herself, but once she actually got somewhere with enough heat to make her sweat, or should have made her sweat, it would take a few days for that phenomenon to occur. It was as if her body was so cold and congealed from the endless winter and dearth of heat that it took a while to defrost. So, for the first two days, Zhara, completely exhausted, simply laid in the sun and did absolutely nothing.
Occasionally, she’d drink water and have a few small bites of food, but for the most part, she simply laid like broccoli and absorbed the healing rays of the sun. About the third day, she’d begin to sweat. That was usually the day she descended to the rocky, awkwardly negotiated shore of the Dead Sea and submerged herself for a very brief time. Most people thought the Dead Sea had healing properties - and Zhara wasn’t going to argue that. For her, though, those healing properties were more the view, sun and silence than anything else. Salt water and salt air were very good for drying up lungs and anything else that might be causing too many bodily secretions.
Namely, snot.
Snot was one of Zhara’s biggest enemies. She’d been born to live somewhere dry and warm. But, instead, had ended up born into the cold, damp climes of the Midwest, where she’d suffered never ending head and chest congestion until she’d discovered how to control the symptoms. Mucous was a disgusting reaction to have to deal with and Zhara felt that she should have figured out much quicker than she had that the Midwest was not a healthy place for her. She needed heat and sun.
Maybe at a later date she’d buy a house in Southern California or someplace like that - if it hadn’t burned to a crisp or fallen into the ocean. Time would tell. For now, the Dead Sea would heal her weary mind and body with its dry, arid climate, healing sunshine and soul-filling views.
By the end of the first week, Zhara was beginning to feel more herself. It took another week of sunshine, massages and the occasional salt-water float to put her completely at her ease.
Evenings were spent watching the sun set and enjoying a wonderfully intoxicating glass of Sambuca - one of Zhara’s favorite beverages in the entire world, but one she could only partake of when in the arid climes of the desert. Otherwise, the dreaded histamine and sulfite-induced mucous came to give her a stuffed-up head and congested set of lungs.
Here, she could have a glass or two of a nice white, get a little bit woozy boozy, marvel at the beauty of the Dead Sea at dusk - there simply was nothing more beautiful - well, perhaps Petra at dusk - and feel that all was right with the world. That feeling was a rare and precious commodity.
Chapter Five
Notable Guests
Zhara had been noticing some of the more notable of the other guests. Well, frankly, some of them you just couldn’t ignore. Some of the more attention -grabbing guests, such as the cantankerous older woman, Mrs. Nettlepoolee, who wore a large sun hat that was never removed from her head - even indoors, announced their appearance before you even saw them. The old woman used a cane and you could hear it tapping sharply on the marble floors of
the hotel or concrete decks of the pool area long before she came into view. She had a rather vicious jab as she walked that had worn the rubber cap off the folding metal cane she used.
There was a young couple on their honeymoon and they were notable in that they were forever kissing and mooning vocally over each other. It would have been sweet if it hadn’t been front and center so often and in such poor taste, as the husband, Gordon, grabbed his new wife’s body parts in full view of the many guests - an uncouth thing to do anywhere, let alone in a country with a large Muslim population that would find that immensely rude. The wife, Theresa, seemed aware that it was rude, but was too moon-eyed to ask her husband to desist.
There was a weedy-looking backpacker who stood out simply because he appeared to have no funds and was completely out of place in his worn hiking boots and holey tee-shirt among the well-dressed, obviously upper-class guests of the resort. The sun was slowly clearing up his rather advanced case of back acne. Thank heaven.
Basilio had spoken to him briefly as they were close to the same age. The young man’s name was Ralph Johnson and he was trying to write a freelance travel memoir. The trip had been financed by his mother who wanted him to become the next Paul Theroux. Zhara thought that was a lot of pressure for a young man on his first trip abroad.
Zhara had also noticed a beautiful blonde woman, obviously a Westerner, who was married to a handsome Jordanian man. The only reason Zhara knew she was blonde was because the woman had been in the women’s spa at the same time as Zhara and had been divested of the solid-black burka she was wearing at all other times. Zhara had introduced herself and the two had a short chat while waiting for their respective treatments.
Her name was Jill Clark and she had married Ahmed Aboud in New York City after dating him for a year. He’d been a successful businessman with ties to many of the delegates at the U.N. and their life there had been a never-ending whirl of parties and glittering social occasions.
The burka and hijab had come after they’d returned to Jordan and the pressures exerted by his family had gradually worn down Ahmed’s insistence that Jill be able to make her own choices. Now she was completely sequestered and Zhara could tell without her saying so that she was unhappy with the way things had changed for them.
Even at the pool her scowling husband made sure she had her hair covered and a 1920’s-type, full-body swimsuit covered her slender frame. Zhara found it appalling.
She knew many women married to Middle Easterners and even if they were strict in public, on a vacation such as this they would loosen up and the women would rid themselves of the burka and hijab. Not so in this case. Zhara felt sorry for the young woman, who was clearly miserable in her heavy coverings.
One older couple, clearly cowed by the differences they were experiencing abroad, had overheard Zhara giving her afternoon tea order on the shaded patio overlooking the sea and boomed out, “Oh thank gawd! It speaks English!” The couple had come barrelling towards her and skidded to a halt so close to the table that they almost sent the tea service flying.
Zhara wasn’t sure who “it” was, but suspected she was the “it”. “Can I help you?” she’d asked politely. For the next hour she was joined, without having invited them of course, by an overwhelmed Presbyterian couple from Iowa - Claude and Iona Wright. They’d originally booked an independent tour where they would drive themselves from one site to another.
One day of trying to negotiate the honking mayhem that was called “driving” in the Middle East had them fleeing to this enclosed resort on the Dead Sea. They were tired and terrified. Zhara had learned the hard way from the hoards of visitors she and Carlton had hosted abroad that when people were scared all their senses seemed to shut down.
It was true of this couple, who didn’t seem to realize that the entire staff of the hotel spoke very good English. They saw someone different than themselves and suddenly couldn’t understand anything that was being said to them. This was a fear response that Zhara had seen before.
It took her two hours to calm the couple, have Beatriz and Basilio take them on a tour of the hotel, introduce them to some of the very friendly staff, and help them make an appointment with the travel advisor at the hotel who would help them get back on track with their travel plans.
Rather than drive themselves, they would be able to hire a driver to take them in the car they rented and act as a local intermediary at the sites. It would make them feel safe and taken care of.
Chapter Six
Dead Sea Death
On the morning of the fifteenth day at the resort, Zhara woke to screams and rushing feet on the patio deck below. So much for a quiet morning of listening to the gulls and doing lazy yoga stretches before breakfast.
Beatriz had also heard the ruckus and was up and peering over the balcony ledge. “I’m not sure what’s going on, my Lady,” she said. “But I want to go find out.”
“Go on then,” Zhara said. “I’ll put on a loose dress and follow you.” This sort of rushed movement at the resort was unheard of and Zhara knew it meant something had happened. She hoped it wasn’t a bomb threat, which was probably the most likely scenario. Sometimes tourists were targeted in resorts such as this.
A few minutes later, having brushed her hair, thrown on a silk caftan and shoved her pedicured feet into a pair of delicate slides, Zhara drifted down the side stairs to avoid the crowds that were most likely being detained in the main building, and let herself out the side service door.
Rounding the corner of the patio and gazing either way out towards the sea, she could see a knot of staff gathered on the rocky beach. Two men tramped rapidly across the grounds with a stretcher and a white bag with a bright red cross on it. Clearly, someone was hurt.
Zhara, not wanting to get in the way, hung back in the sheltering vines of the pergola that shaded the patio. The men with the stretcher moved slowly back towards the hotel. A body now lay on the stretcher, the group moving in unison to help carry the weight. Even from this distance, Zhara could see that the tall, well-built form on the stretcher was Ahmed Aboud, the controlling husband of Jill Clark. Jill was nowhere to be seen.
Grant Westerly, the hotel manager, followed the knot of workers carrying Ahmed’s body. Whether he was dead or unconscious, Zhara didn’t know.
Stepping out from the shade of the pergola, Zhara let Grant Westerly see her concerned face. “Oh, Lady Six, I’m so sorry you had to see this!” he exclaimed. “There’s been an accident. Mr. Aboud has slipped on the rocks and hit his head. He is, unfortunately, deceased.” The hotel manager wrung his hands and shook his head forlornly. “Poor Mrs. Aboud. Such a fragile thing. How will I tell her?” Mr. Westerly almost wailed with the weight of such a duty laid heavy on his conscience.
“Would you like Beatriz and I to go with you?” Zhara asked. “I’ve met Mrs. Aboud while at the spa, so I’m not a complete stranger. Beatriz is always very good with people who are upset. I’m sure she could sit with Mrs. Aboud for a bit and help her settle after you deliver the news.”
The hotel manager looked stunned, then relieved. “Yes, yes I’d like that very much. I’m sure she would be comforted by your presence. Please, do come with me.”
Beatriz, having been lurking unseen in the shadows - something the diminutive woman was quite good at - stepped out and joined them. Together the three of them and Mr. Westerly’s head of security, a dark-visaged man of middle years, went to inform Jill Clark that her husband was dead.
Chapter Seven
Detective Jaber
Jill Clark Aboud had been bleary-eyed and disheveled when the small group knocked on the couple’s two-bedroom, luxury suite. She’d opened the door, gaped at them for several seconds, then said, “What’s going on?” in a sleep-addled voice.
Unless Jill was a world-class actress, she was clearly just waking from sleep. Even Zhara, the world’s greatest skeptic, thought she was authentically befuddled.
“Could we come in please?” Grant Westerly asked he
r gently, “We need to talk to you.”
Jill opened the door wider, wrapped her robe more tightly around her slender frame and said, “Let me wake Ahmed. He slept in the spare room last night after he gave me a sleeping pill.”
Zhara stepped forward and intercepted the young woman. “That’s ok. Let’s just sit down and I’ll have Beatriz bring us some tea and toast. We’re all going to need the sustenance, I believe.” Beatriz scuttled off as the confused-looking Jill allowed herself to be seated on the sofa. Zhara settled next to her and looked towards the hotel manager to begin.
He wrung his hands, stuttered and then looked helplessly at Zhara. Oh for Pete’s sake, she thought to herself, the guy was like some heroine out of a Victorian novel - all nerves and hesitation.