by Trish Morey
Sera gasped when she looked in the mirror. ‘It is exquisite. But, please, you must let me pay for it.’
The old woman nodded and smiled. ‘You may pay me with your smile—it is all that I ask. For one so beautiful should not be sad. Listen to Abizah, for she knows these things. Soon you will find your happiness.’ And in the next instant she was waving them away, as if they were keeping her from other customers, of which there were none. ‘Now, you who could be King, be away on your business, and thank you,’ she said, bowing, as if he’d just done her the favour of her life. ‘Thank you for stopping at my shop.’
‘She is a generous woman,’ Rafiq said to Suleman, and he smiled indulgently as they continued along the path.
‘Abizah is Marrash’s wise woman. Her eyes are not so good, as she says, yet still she sees things.’
‘What kind of things?’ asked Sera.
‘The future, some say.’ And then he shrugged. ‘But others believe she speaks nothing but nonsense. Sometimes it can be one and the same. Come this way; the factory is waiting for us.’
The future? Rafiq wondered. Or nonsense?
Why had she addressed him as ‘you who could be King’? Did she mean if not for Kareef? It seemed a strange way to refer to him.
But not half as strange as it had felt when she had called Sera his wife. Even after his correction still she’d persisted, half the time speaking in riddles. No wonder some said she spoke nonsense!
Sera put a hand to her throat, where the tiny stones of the choker lay cool and smooth against her flesh. She was still trembling, although whether from the words of the old woman or as a result of Rafiq’s sensual touch and the fan of his warm breath against her throat, she wasn’t sure.
Why should she feel so much now, when she had felt nothing for so long? Why had feelings come back to life, turning everything into colour instead of black and white?
And why had the old woman assumed she was Rafiq’s wife? They were travelling together, it was true, and Rafiq might not be as well known to the Qusanis as his brother Kareef. But she had persisted even after Rafiq’s gentle attempt to correct her. And what had she meant about Sera being the Sheikha’s companion ‘for now’?
Despite the warmth of the day, Sera shivered as she followed their guide, haunted by Abizah’s words, trying to make sense of them. How did the old woman know she’d not been happy for a long time? Had she found it written on her face, or guessed it from the black robes she favoured? But how could she have known when she was nearly blind?
Whatever, the encounter with the old woman had shaken her, and the magnitude of the gift she’d bestowed upon her was unsettling. Even though of polished emerald chips rather than cut stones, the necklace was such a beautiful thing, the craftsmanship superb. How could she ever repay her?
In a momentary pause in their guide’s monologue, she touched a hand to Rafiq’s arm. ‘There must be something we can do to repay her. There must be.’ And Rafiq’s eyes turned from what had looked like shock at her touch to understanding, and without his saying a word she somehow knew he understood.
The path had widened to a courtyard, and a squat, long building that seemed to disappear into the very mountain peak behind, its timber door knotted and pitted with age. Suleman stood before it, his hand on the latch.
‘Welcome,’ he said, smiling broadly, ‘to our Aladdin’s Cave.’ And then he bowed theatrically and pushed open the door.
Sera gasped as she entered the long, surprisingly cool room, as an explosion of colour greeted her: jewel colours in bolts stacked high on shelves, more bolts lined up to attention on the floor like soldiers, all adorned with glittering gems in patterns reminiscent of starbursts or flowers or patterned swirls, sparkling where the light caught them. It was an endless array of colour—wherever she looked an endless source of delight.
Tucked into one corner of the vast room, a small display had been set up. Inadequate. really, given the extent of the range, but there was a bed, with covers and drapes and cushions, all aimed to show how the fabrics could be used. And alongside was set a trio of dummies, wearing gowns fashioned from the lightest fabric. The colours were intense, in ruby-red and sunset-gold and peacock-blue, the fabrics diaphanous, gossamer-thin, the emerald chips blazing upon them as if they were alive.
They were superb.
Rafiq was no less impressed. In truth, he’d expected a few bolts of fabric, some of it failing to live up to the sample his mother had shown him, because surely they would have sent their best to the Sheikha. But, looking at the vast selection around him, Rafiq wondered how anyone could have chosen the best.
He walked around the room, testing a sample of fabric here and there, admiring the handiwork, feeling the difference in the weights. He knew little of fabric, preferring to leave the finer details to his buyers’ expertise, but he did know from the sales reports that anything of this quality would be snapped up in a heartbeat. Curtains, cushions, soft furnishings—even without the benefit of the mocked-up display, he could see the applications would be vast.
‘Why is there so much here?’ he wondered out loud, while Suleman stood rocking back on his heels, clearly delighted with his visitors’ reactions.
‘Abizah told us it was not the time to sell before now, and so we waited. The materials have been stockpiled here.’
Rafiq looked up. ‘Abizah? The old woman we met?’
The elder nodded. ‘Some said that she knew nothing of what she spoke, but others, mostly the women, overruled them.’
‘Then how is it that I saw a bolt of this fabric at the palace just yesterday?’
‘Ah.’ Their guide nodded. ‘There was one bolt, sent to the palace as a gift in the hope that it would be found suitable for a role in the coronation. Alas, we sent the fabric too late. The ceremonial robes had already been decided upon.’
Rafiq considered his words, accepted the sense they made. ‘And your Abizah believes now is the right time to sell?’
‘The moon is past full this month, and so, yes, she has given her approval. The time is upon us, she said.’
‘My mother mentioned you already have somebody interested in the collection. How did they find out about what you have here?’
Suleman shrugged, holding his hands up, tilting his head, his brown face collapsing into craggy ravines as he smiled. ‘Chance. Destiny. Who can say? A tourist couple, a businessman and his wife, they chanced across Marrash and stopped for refreshment. The women invited the wife in to view their treasures. As fate would have it, her husband was an executive for a large import company. He sent out a representative as soon as he returned home.’
Rafiq nodded. The man would have to have been certifiable not to. ‘And an offer has been made?’
Suleman’s chest puffed up with pride. ‘A very good offer. Some said we should accept it straight away, that good fortune had shone down on Marrash the day the travellers happened by.’
‘And others?’
Again that shrug, less pronounced this time. ‘Others said that we should wait, that we had already waited this long and that we need not rush at the first sheep through the pen.’
The old Qusani proverb brought a smile to Rafiq’s lips. It was a long time since he’d heard it, but the saying was uncannily pertinent. Why get excited chasing the fastest beast when it could be leaner and less tasty, when the slower animal might have more meat, more fat, and be more succulent and tender?
Rafiq’s business sense kicked in, his pulse quickening at the thrill of the chase. He’d been given this opportunity, this chance to find something truly unique, and, while running his business and overseeing the big picture had consumed his time in the last few years, there was something to be said for the nitty-gritty of finding the actual items that would sell.
His gut had made him rich when he had first started out, many years ago, before he’d had buyers scouring the Arab world for the best. His gut had told him what items would work in the Australian market. His gut was telling him now that
this was a rare find.
He owed his mother thanks. If she had not thought to show him the bolt of fabric he could have been too late, the deal already done.
‘Are you able to tell me what this representative offered?’
Suleman gave an average figure per bolt—hopelessly inadequate, Rafiq recognised right away, even if Suleman had, as he expected he would have, inflated that figure with a decent margin to ensure any counter-offer would be better. But even if inflated, the quality of the fabrics at stake, let alone the rights to exclusivity, demanded at least that much again. Clearly the people of Marrash were being taken advantage of.
‘It is not nearly enough,’ he announced. ‘You should be demanding at least double that.’
Beside him Sera gasped, as if she’d mentally calculated the worth of the room at the mention of the first offer, only to find Rafiq willing to offer double that price. But it was Suleman who looked the most taken aback, his face pale with shock. ‘Are you making an offer, Your Highness?’
‘Would it be accepted, Suleman?’
He bowed, his features quickly schooled, though his eyes shone with an excitement that refused to be masked. ‘I would have to refer your offer to the council.’
‘Of elders?’ If so, with Suleman’s clear excitement, the dollar signs practically spinning in his eyes, he would be home and hosed.
‘Not in this case, Your Highness. It would be the women’s council. It may sound unconventional, but this project has been the domain of the women all along. In deference to your position, they asked me to be their representative today.’
‘Unconventional indeed,’ he said. Not to mention disappointing. But hopefully the council of women might be influenced by the most senior of the village elders, just the same.
‘It stems back to how the project began,’ the elder continued, sounding apologetic. ‘One of the women in the village, an aging widow, inherited some money from a family member in Shafar. She could simply have moved back to the city, but she had been in the village a long time and wanted to stay. She did not need the money for herself, so she elected to do something that would benefit the village as a whole, creating an ongoing income stream for all the women.’
Rafiq’s eyebrows lifted in appreciation. ‘A remarkable thing to do,’ he said, and Suleman nodded sagely.
‘Indeed. Already the women had been experimenting with off-cuts from the emerald mines, using the chips in all kinds of endeavours—the necklace from Abizah, for example…’ he gestured towards the choker at Sera’s neck ‘…and the lamp. They devised a method of using the emerald chips, of fracturing off tiny shards that would work like beads upon the fabrics. The inheritance supported the purchase of sewing machines and fabrics—the satins and silks that are the base of the finished product like those you see around you.’
‘And because it is the women’s endeavour, they are the ones who get to select the buyer—is that right?’
Suleman nodded, somewhat apologetically. ‘They will listen to the advice of the council of elders, but ultimately, yes, it is their decision.’
‘Could I meet with them, do you think? I would like to commend them on their endeavours.’
‘They would most certainly be honoured, Your Highness. They are all working in the workshop nearby. Although…’ Suleman coughed into his hand, his face serious, as if deliberating over his words carefully.
‘Is there a problem?’
Suleman wavered, the creases at his brow deepening as he took a thoughtful breath. ‘It is indeed the decision of the Marrashi women to make—and they will, of course, be honoured to meet you and show you their workroom—but I must warn you, the women do not feel confident in negotiating with a man. Any man. I am sorry, but it would be best if you left the negotiations to your companion.’ He nodded towards Sera.
It was as his mother had said. She had advised him he would need a woman to negotiate any deal with the villagers.
He looked over to where Sera stood meekly at his shoulder, her dark eyes wide with concern, as if terrified by the prospect of speaking to the women’s council on his behalf. But he saw beyond that too, stirring once again at the near perfection of her features, the perfection he would find if only she would smile again.
Need curled around him like a viper and tugged tight. At her throat the necklace of emerald chips winked and glinted in the light like a living thing, perhaps given life by the beating pulse at her throat that continued to fascinate him.
And he was suddenly consumed with the need to touch her, to slide his body along hers, to attain completion inside her slender form.
Release.
That was what he needed. That was what he wanted.
Release, and that secret smile she used to give him that gave an even warmer glow than the sun.
He breathed deep, knowing that one would come this night, perhaps, and, if he were lucky, both.
He turned back to Suleman, if only to remind himself that he was still here, and so as not to take Sera right now where she stood.
‘Sera is here,’ he managed to growl through a throat thick with need, ‘for just that purpose.’
The older man nodded. ‘I am glad you understand. I should also warn you the women’s council likes to deliberate over its decisions, and it is highly unlikely that you will have a decision today, despite your generous offer.’
‘I am not in Qusay for long,’ Rafiq stressed, trying to impress upon Suleman some kind of urgency. ‘I must return to Australia after the coronation, and it would make sense to have any deal nutted out before then.’
The older man nodded. ‘I understand. However, the council of women has waited this long. It will most likely not choose to be rushed.’
The slow lamb, Rafiq thought. They would want a rich and plump beast, with meat enough for all to share. He doubted the other party would match his offer, but there was a possibility they would want to go back to find out. And then what? How long would the council of women keep waiting in order to get the fatted lamb?
Damn. If he was permitted to be the one to negotiate, he had no doubt he’d be able to turn them around—even if it was an entire roomful of women he was facing. He had a wealth of experience at negotiating mammoth business decisions behind him. It was the stuff he dealt with every day.
But Sera? She had no experience with such matters. No background in negotiating that he knew of.
Most important of all, she had no stake in the outcome. Apart from putting his offer to them, why should she argue for anything more—especially now she’d heard the women would probably want to take their time? Why should she rock the boat? It was no skin off her nose if he missed out on the deal.
Besides, how did he know she wouldn’t deliberately sabotage him as payback for being forced to come out here with him?
But there was nothing he could do. So instead he growled out his understanding, already feeling the buzz of discovery waning with the possibility that the deal he’d felt so close to making might yet slip away.
Most likely would, now that it was in Sera’s hands.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘HOW did you do it?’ They’d not been long settled, or as settled as one could be, in the car that now rattled and lurched its way away from Marrash and down the mountainside, the sun slipping to the west on one side, its slanted rays colouring the cliffs an even more vibrant red. In the front seat one driver was offering the other his unappreciated advice from the passenger seat as to which set of ruts to follow, while Rafiq stared disbelievingly down at the paper in his lap—the paper Sera had provided him with after her meeting, and the paper that guaranteed him exclusive rights to the Marrash Collection, as the women’s council had decided to call it.
Of course the lawyers would have to convert the hastily written scrawl into something resembling a legal document, with all the ‘i’s dotted and ‘t’s crossed, and there would be signatures and counter-signatures required before it was all done and dusted, but the guts of it was done, the basic
contract terms agreed.
But he still didn’t understand how. Three hours or so ago they’d entered the sweetly perfumed building that housed the women’s workshop to the whir and hum of a dozen sewing machines and the sound of the chatter and laughter of a score of women. Through it all had come the melodic tones of a lullaby, as a young woman soothed a baby in a corner of the room set up as a crèche. All had fallen silent at the arrival of the visitors, even the baby stopping its fussing as the room descended into an unexpected hush.
It hadn’t lasted. The women, initially shy but more than delighted to accept their prince’s compliments on their endeavours, had proudly showed him and Sera around their workshop, and then into the adjoining room, where another small group of women polished the tiny flakes of precious stone and transformed them into the shimmering beauties that would adorn fabrics or other souvenirs.
After the tour the women had apologised and begged Rafiq and Suleman to leave them with Sera while they deliberated. Suleman had done his best to distract the prince with a further walk through the village, relaying its long and ancient history and introducing citizens of interest along the way, but Rafiq had found it impossible to focus. Even knowing that there was little chance of any kind of agreement today, just knowing Sera was negotiating in his place was akin to having an iron chain knotted tight around his gut. What was the point of leaving someone else negotiating in his place? Especially when that woman was Sera.
It did not bode well.
‘How long will they take?’ Rafiq had asked, when they’d been an hour already, when already the wait had seemed interminable, but Suleman had merely smiled and shrugged his shoulders sympathetically.
‘We are talking about a council of women,’ he had replied, and Rafiq had taken his point even while the knotted chain around his gut had drawn tighter.
What was happening in there?
Until finally the women had emerged, smiling, from their meeting, and to his surprise Sera had presented him with the paper and the done deal. In relief, nothing more than relief, he’d picked her up and spun her in his arms and kissed her, to the cheers and whoops of everyone around.