by Kim Barnes
“Not this one,” I said.
He looked at me quickly, then away. “Of course, memsahib.”
I scrunched my shoulders. “Could you just call me Gin?”
He considered for a moment. “Perhaps Mrs. Gin,” he said, and I smiled.
“We can make shrimp cocktail,” I said, but Yash pulled back as though I had uttered a shocking profanity.
“If you will allow me,” he said delicately, and I hesitated before abandoning my station and wandering through the house as though there were something I had lost.
When Yash finally called me to the table, my mouth was watering, my hunger whetted by the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen. He served me the shrimp sautéed in butter, spiced with ginger and garlic, and I ate them every one. The air conditioner kicked on, and I shivered in the cooler air. While Yash was making tea, I pulled back the curtain, louvered the blind’s slats. I could feel his immediate dismay as he positioned my saucer.
“It is not simply the heat,” he said. “If a Muslim sees what is forbidden, we will be the ones who are punished.”
“But we’re not doing anything,” I said.
“It takes very little,” he said. “I’ve known houseboys who were thrashed and deported for being observed playing a simple game of cards. The Americans believe that the fence is to protect them from the Arabs, but, truly, it is to protect the Arabs from the Americans and their myriad temptations.” He began clearing the table.
“Let me help,” I said, and stood to gather my plate.
“Mrs. Gin,” he said, stopping me in my tracks. “Without a job, I will be the one deported.” I let him take the dishes from my hands, then trailed him into the kitchen.
“What about the Bodeens?” I asked. “What were they like?”
He scraped our plates, ran hot water. “They were Americans,” he said, “like you.”
“Why did they leave the way they did?”
Yash lifted his shoulders but didn’t answer.
“All right then,” I said, too stubborn to stop. “How did you meet your wife?”
He lifted his chin but not his eyes. “We met at university. I spied her across the courtyard and was immediately smitten, but she was beautiful and a very serious student. I mistakenly believed that my soldier’s uniform might spark her interest, but she took no notice of me.”
“So what did you do?”
“What young men have always done in the face of love. I made a fool of myself.” He smiled, and I smiled with him. “I had been to the library, and my arms were full of Plato and Curie, Rumi, of course, and even Lord Byron. I fancied myself not only an officer, philosopher, and physicist but a poet as well. She was with her girlfriends at the fountain, and I thought to drop my books in front of her so she could see the brilliance of my study.”
I waited, imagining Yash, a mop of dark hair, dressed in a crisp white shirt, little different than he looked now, only younger.
“I tripped in realistic fashion,” he continued, “and succeeded in scattering my books at her feet. Misfortune that the trajectory of my fall propelled the weightiest of the tomes into the waters of the fountain.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “The books were ruined.”
“Only the rarest of them, the ones I would spend the next year paying for.” He paused for a moment, fixed his eyes on the dishwater. “To see her take off her shoes, hike up her skirts, and wade into the fountain—this was worth all the world’s wisdom that day.”
“It worked,” I said. “You won her heart.”
He brought his eyes to mine for a quick moment, then dropped them back to his hands. “Yes, I won her heart.”
I waited, but whatever story he had in him was done. “I guess I’ll plant the garden,” I said, “if Faris will let me.”
In the plot of yard, I shoveled and rooted, lined out rows, dug my fingers deep into what was little more than sand, the sweat that dripped from my nose evaporating the second it hit the ground. I seeded the okra and cut the potatoes and yams into eyed sections. When I heard someone behind me, I thought it was Faris, but I turned to see Yash, carrying a perfectly arranged tray of hot tea and the bread he called chapati.
“Can you pour that tea over ice,” I asked, “and throw in some sugar? It’s baking out here.”
He looked down at the tray then back at me, sighed, and turned for the kitchen.
“Bring yourself some too,” I called, but the door had already clapped shut.
By the time Monday rolled around, I was so eager for Ruthie’s arrival that I could hardly sit still for breakfast. On my way to the shower, I stopped at the linen closet for a fresh towel and found all my work undone, each item carefully refolded to its original configuration. Yash stepped into the hallway as though he knew what I was thinking.
“Dinner this evening is masala lamb, my mother’s specialty. It is the first time I have chosen to make it,” he said, and smiled his way back into the kitchen.
I stood for a moment with my hand on the knob before quietly closing the door. The house was clean, dinner planned—even the folding of the laundry was now out of my hands. A lady of leisure, I thought to myself. I couldn’t imagine what my grandfather would say.
A little after noon, the doorbell chimed, and Yash hurried to the entry as though he feared I might get there first. Ruthie breezed in and handed him a bottle of pineapple wine. “Dessert,” she said. “Better stick it in the freezer.” She turned to me. “My houseboy has gone off to find a wife, and until he gets back, my place is off-limits. I haven’t cleaned a toilet for fifteen years, and I’m not going to start now.” She dabbed her upper lip free of sweat. “Give me a tour, will you? I’ve never been past the living room.”
Yash carried the bottle into the kitchen while I showed Ruthie the house, still surprised by the number of closets, the paintings on the walls, Mason’s study with its mahogany desk.
In the bathroom, Ruthie exclaimed, “Oh, you lucky duck! I’ve always wanted a bidet.” I stared at the porcelain fixture next to the toilet, and Ruthie laughed. “For rinsing your bottom.” When she straddled the bowl like she was sitting a horse, I couldn’t help but cover my mouth. “After sex,” Ruthie said matter-of-factly, “to cleanse.” It made my skin prickle to think of it: a woman opening herself so shamelessly, with such practicality.
“It’s a beautiful home,” Ruthie said as we moved down the hallway.
“I’m sure yours is just as nice,” I said.
“You’re kidding, right?” When she saw my blank look, she gave a short laugh. “You’ve got one of the best.”
“I guess we got lucky,” I said, but she shook her head.
“Nothing around here happens by luck unless it’s bad.” She stopped at the tapestry, ran her fingers over its thread. “You’ll earn more money here than you’ll know what to do with. Some people save, and some people spend. Buck and Betsy were spenders. They poured everything into this place, then left it all behind. Betsy and I weren’t the closest of friends, but I thought she would at least take the time to say good-bye.” She waved her hand between us. “It won’t do any good to ask why because no one will tell you a damn thing. Usually, it’s best not to know. Around here, rumor is king and as close as you’ll ever get to the truth. Best to take what you inherit and shut up about it.” She settled in at the dining table, searching for an ashtray, which Yash brought as though summoned by a bell. When she handed me a cigarette, I didn’t hesitate, seduced by the pearly lighter she pulled from her case, the leaning into the flame, the first inhalation and blood rush.
“Next door,” Ruthie said, and pointed north, “you’ve got Chuck and Starla Cunningham. He’s ramrodding a job in Venezuela and won’t be back until after Christmas. On this side, Don Perry and his wife, Inga. He dug her up in Denmark. She is always in bed with a headache.” She moved her cigarette in a circle. “The Perrys keep to themselves, but most of us use any excuse we can to get together—birthday parties, baby showers, full moon, you name it. That’s
why they call Abqaiq the Friendly City. If the Welcoming Committee comes by, act like you’re not home or they’ll tote in their casseroles and swill all your booze. If you don’t want company, don’t answer your door.”
Yash returned with fragrant dishes of beef biryani flavored with whole spices, a curry made with potatoes, eggplant, and green beans, tomato chutney, and homemade yogurt with a dash of sugar. For dessert, he presented rose-flavored dumplings in cardamom-scented syrup along with a glass of the pineapple wine that was cold but smelled like sulfur. He watched carefully as we tasted the dumplings until Ruthie pointed to her cup. “Tea?”
“Of course, memsahib.” Yash went to heat water, carrying with him an air of mild disappointment.
She peeked back to make sure he was gone. “Always remember,” she whispered, “the houseboys hear everything.”
“He’s really smart,” I said.
“They are all smart,” Ruthie answered, “or at least they think they are. Yash was with the Bodeens for years, so I’m sure he has learned a trick or two.”
“He went to college,” I said. “That’s where he met his wife.”
“He’s a Brahmin?” Ruthie narrowed her eyes. “Who did he murder to end up here?”
I lifted my shoulders. “Maybe he just likes being a houseboy.”
“Now, that’s a joke,” she said, then motioned to the kitchen. “Let’s go see what’s left of the still. You know that Buck had the best.”
Yash stepped aside as we surveyed the large pantry and discovered the various pots, tubes, and condensers. Tucked beneath a crocheted tea cozy, I found a stained copy of The Blue Flame, detailing with scientific exactitude the fermentation and distillation of spirits.
“Throw in potatoes, fruit, whatever you’ve got, but all you really need is yeast and sugar,” Ruthie said. “It’s like running a pressure cooker full of gasoline, so let Yash do it.”
“Sadiqi,” Yash said pleasantly.
“Sadiqi means ‘my friend,’ ” Ruthie said. “It’s code for booze. The truth is that if you don’t have a still, you’ve got nothing.” She dropped her cigarettes into her purse, pulled out a bright yellow scarf, tied it beneath her chin. “Listen,” she said, “you’ll want to see more than these walls every day. Most wives are Casual Employees, typing, transcribing, that kind of thing. I go into Dhahran every now and then and help with vaccination records.”
“I read,” I said.
She smiled indulgently and patted my arm. “I’ll call you in the morning,” she said. “We’ve got to do something about that hair. It makes you look like you’re ten.” She stepped out to where her once-blue Volkswagen, sun-bleached to milky gray, hunkered on its oversize tires, more dune buggy than car. “See you later, alligator,” she called.
It took me a moment to remember what I had heard the other teenagers say in Shawnee, to raise my hand and respond, “After ’while, crocodile.” Such a simple thing, but it filled me with more happiness than I had felt for a long time.
Chapter Four
The next day found me sitting in the eye-watering haze of perm solution and cigarette smoke of the Abqaiq Beauty Salon, still savoring the memory of the dinner Yash had made me: tender masala lamb that had filled my mouth with the sweetness of tomatoes and the tart surprise of lemon, nothing like the tallowy mutton I’d been forced to eat as a girl. When I told Yash that I wished I could cook like he did, he had lifted his nose in mock arrogance. “You must first be Punjabi,” he said, genuinely pleased as he carried my empty plate to the kitchen.
I looked around the shop to where Candy Fullerton and Burt Cane’s wife, Maddy, waited their turn, purling their needles through baby booties, part of their charity work for native children. Soft blue sweaters, pale pink caps, green-and-yellow afghans—the Christian Women’s Fellowship Group sent out donations each week, but Ruthie said she had yet to see a Bedouin child dressed in knitted pastel. Except for Ruthie, I felt shy around the women. Many, like Candy, carried the airs of Southern debutantes, while others seemed more like aging matrons, including Maddy, whose hair had been teased and sprayed into a helmet meant to defy the stiffest of desert winds.
Rafiq, the lean Lebanese beautician, worked at the rats in Ruthie’s bouffant, combing his way up from ends to scalp, and I was next. I needed a new style, Ruthie had insisted, for my interview with Sun and Flare in Dhahran. “I know the editor, Nestor Reedy,” she had said when I opened my mouth in surprise, “and you need a hobby so you don’t go bonkers.” I wondered whether she somehow sensed in me that desire I had felt as a girl to be the maker of my own stories. All those diary pages, all that dreaming … “Your head is in the clouds,” my grandfather said to me, “and that’s not the same as heaven.”
The dryer’s heat made the beauty shop hotter than the air outside. “The bathroom faucet broke,” Maddy was complaining, “but do you think Burt could fix it? No, sir. He can drill a well a mile deep but can’t plumb a faucet. I had to call in the coolies.” I focused on the familiar pages of Aramco World, then used it as a fan. I had garbed myself in slacks and a seersucker blouse, but Ruthie sat cool in her sleeveless white shell, black capris, and pearly red flats.
“Did you hear about Katie Johnson?” Candy leaned in, her voice breathy and sharp. “They flew her out last night. Nervous breakdown.”
Maddy started to respond, then cut her eyes my way, needles clicking. I pretended to be absorbed in the magazine, imagining the articles I might write if I could report what I heard at the beauty shop.
“Gin is going to be reporting for Sun and Flare,” Ruthie announced as though reading my mind.
“I’ve always wanted to be a writer,” Candy said, her voice tipped with jealousy, “but Ross won’t let me work.”
“Ross is crazy,” Ruthie said, and nodded to me. “Your turn.” She slid from the chair before Rafiq could release the foot pump. He dusted the seat, snapped a fresh cape, and motioned for me to sit. He palmed the ends of my hair, cocked his head in the mirror. Ruthie lit a cigarette, circled around, then said a few words that I didn’t understand. Rafiq nodded his agreement before leading me to the sink, where he lowered my head gently, testing the spray against his wrist. I relaxed as he worked the lather with the tips of his fingers. When he caught a snarl, he went at it with the precision of a lace maker, teasing the strands free. I kept my eyes closed as he rinsed, moisturized, then gathered my hair in a towel and squeezed. When I looked up, I saw him gazing down at me with the beneficence of a monk. I returned to the chair, and he combed my hair into sections, made a cut in the back. When he lifted the thick hank, I caught my breath.
“Oh,” I protested, “not that much,” but he just shrugged. I closed my eyes and didn’t open them again until he had my hair in large rollers and was leading me to the dryer, where I sat with the hot wind blowing across my ears and watched the mouths of the other women. When Rafiq combed me out, my hair fell into a flip at my shoulders. He stood back, presenting me to Ruthie for inspection.
“Just gorgeous.” She turned to Candy and Maddy, who had been stealing glances all along. “You’ve got to have high cheekbones to pull off this cut. Just look at yourself, Gin. So sophisticated.”
I stared in the mirror, my eyes different somehow, not mine at all. Rafiq caught my gaze in the reflection, smiled, then busied himself with his broom.
Outside, the sun hit my head like an anvil. I walked stiff-necked to Ruthie’s VW, fearing the wind that would twist my hair into knots.
“Don’t be a goose,” she said, wrapping her own new style with a scarf. “It’s the kind of cut that falls right into place.” She checked her lipstick in the rearview, handed the tube to me. “Candy is jealous of you already.”
“Why would she be jealous of me?” I touched the lipstick to my mouth, tasted its bitter perfume.
“Because you’re young and beautiful, and she’s mutton dressed as lamb,” Ruthie said. “She married late and has never gotten over it. When Ross Junior was born, you would have thought we had a
new prince.” She waved to a passing car. “Candy will do anything to make sure that Ross gets promoted to general manager. I just try to stay out of her way.”
“What about Maddy?” I asked. “She seems kind of sour.”
“She’s more than sour. She’s a mean old bitch.” I startled at Ruthie’s words. I had never heard a woman cuss before. “Maddy never wanted to be in Arabia in the first place and has hated every minute of it.” She waved her hand as though clearing away a bad smell. “All I know is that I’ve got good friends here. She’s not one of them. Listen,” she said, checking her purse for cigarettes. “After we get done with your interview, let’s take the bus to al-Khobar and do some shopping.”
I raised my face in surprise. “But I didn’t ask Mason,” I said.
“Do you have to ask him about everything?” Ruthie rolled her eyes. “I hate planning out every hour. Better to be spontaneous. Besides, what else are you going to do? Go home and read?” She snapped her gum. “Mason won’t even know.”
I considered her arms. “What about the Virtue Police?”
“Al-Khobar is an oil town,” she said. “They won’t bother us there.”
When I hesitated, she winged her eyebrows, said, “Now what?” and I lifted my shoulders. “I don’t have any money,” I said.
“You don’t need money. If you see something you want, they send your husband the bill. I don’t even carry a wallet. Come on,” she said. “We’ll have fun.”
We parked at the bus stop, and Ruthie nodded to where a tall Arab man, ten-gallon hat settled onto his jug-handle ears, leaned against a two-tone Chevrolet. Instead of a thobe and ghutra, he wore a Western snap-button shirt and blousy cotton trousers tucked into a pair of boots whose gaucho heels added two inches to his height.
“That’s Yousef,” she said. “Some of us girls pitched in and bought him that outfit. I insisted on the Stetson. He doesn’t speak English, but he knows how to get you where you’re going.” As we walked by, Yousef tipped his hat and smiled a big cowboy smile. “Give him a smoke, and sometimes you ride free,” Ruthie murmured. “Nobody loves tobacco more than a Bedouin.”