by Kim Barnes
“Another explosion,” I said, but Carlo shook his head.
“No. It is something else.” We slowed as a Bedouin militiaman, bandoliers strapping his chest, separated himself from the cluster and waved us down. Carlo narrowed his eyes, took out the note I had written, and drew out his dagger, laid it alongside his leg, said, “Don’t speak a word, bella.” I gathered my scarf over my hair, pulled it across my face, tucked it at my throat as the man approached.
Carlo handed him the paper and gestured to the road, joking and offering cigarettes, but the man remained unsmiling as he bent to peer in at me, then walked back to confer with his fellows. Carlo’s voice grew more serious.
“Listen to me,” he said. “These are not local men. I have no sway with them. If they threaten to arrest us, you must act furious. Say that I am your driver, that your husband is an important Aramco executive, that he will be angry when he finds out your virtue has been questioned. It won’t matter that he can’t understand you.”
“I’m not afraid,” I said.
Carlo nodded to where the guards conferred. “If you don’t fear for yourself, then fear for me.”
We watched as the guard walked back to the car. I pressed my shoulders straight, readying myself to act their superior, someone who might make them pay. The man leaned into Carlo’s window, and I could smell his sour breath as he barked a few words. He glared at me, then dropped the paper into Carlo’s lap and stepped away. We crept forward until we had cleared the queue, and I heard Carlo let out a sharp sigh.
“Mio Madre,” he said. “You have taken years from my life, and the day is not yet over.”
“But it worked,” I said. “We fooled them.”
He looked at me sideways and allowed a grin. “If you are a good clown, they accept you as a clown.”
“What did he say is happening?” I leaned out my window and peered across the sand to the compound’s boundaries, struck again by how much like an island it was, a fenced oasis moated by sand.
“The protests have spread to Dhahran,” Carlo said, peering through the windshield. “These are university students. You have educated them well.”
“But why the compound?” I asked.
“Because of Aramco’s ties to Israel,” he said. “They want King Faisal to stand with his Arab kin and join the oil embargo.”
As we approached the turnoff leading to the main gate and guardhouse, I pulled out my camera. “Drive closer,” I said.
“Pazza,” he said. “I knew that you were a crazy woman.” He checked his rearview before steering us off the road and parking in the shaded lee of an ancient tamarisk. Above the wail of the siren, I could hear the pop and sizzle of small explosions. Maybe it was the adrenaline that allowed me not to think of the risks I was taking, or maybe it was Carlo’s earlier praise that made me bold, or maybe it was nothing more or less than my being that stubborn girl I had always been, acting first, willing to suffer the consequences later, but more than anything, what I wanted was to be where whatever was happening was happening.
I opened my door, whispered, “Come on.”
“Where?” Carlo asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Just follow me.”
“I am a pirate,” he hissed. “I have no need for a navigator.” But he trailed me anyway. We looked around before striking out across the sand, then hunkered our way along the fence that enclosed the compound, scrabbling forward against the pitch of rock and sand, the vacant desert on our left, on our right the bunkerlike buildings, the shouts of men, the slap of someone running down the street. Smoke twisted above us, settled like garland in the limbs of acacia. A hundred yards north of the administration building, the Dhahran hospital crowded the fence, three stories of shaded windows reflecting back the sun.
“There is nothing here,” Carlo whispered. “We should return before we are discovered.” I ignored him and pushed against the wire, hoping for give. How many fences had I climbed over, scooted beneath, wiggled through? But this one was different, several feet higher than my head, barbed at the top, chain link dense enough to keep out the jackals and svelte foxes.
“Wait,” Carlo said, and pulled me back. I peered ahead, saw a flurry of movement dusting the sand.
“It’s an animal,” I said.
“Yes,” Carlo said, “but what kind?” We bunched close, creeping forward until we could see where the fence had been cut and broken through. In the mesh of wire, a large red dog struggled, caught by a slender hind leg—someone’s Irish setter, bolting from the noise. She lifted her head, feathered tail wagging, and gave one light bark as we approached.
Carlo examined the breach in the fence, but I was focused on the dog, her long muzzle, deep chest, narrow hips, the blood that matted her haunch. When I knelt beside her, she licked my cheek and whined. The sharp wire had hooked her through the hock. I held her leg, feeling for a way to work the wire loose, but the pain made her jerk from my hands, whimper, and snap.
“Help me,” I said to Carlo. “It’s going to take us both.”
He shook his head. “Leave her,” he said. “To them, dogs are unclean. We are already risking too much.”
An explosive concussion split the air, and Carlo ducked as though the hospital might come crashing down on our heads. I thought about Linda, wondered if she had fled the compound, saw Carlo peer up, searching the windows as though he shared my thoughts. He drew his dagger, motioned to the cringing dog. “Kneel on her neck,” he said.
“Don’t kill her,” I said. I was remembering the dog in the ditch, my grandfather’s shovel, the chunk of metal against bone.
“Do as I say,” Carlo insisted, “before we lose more time.”
I stroked the dog’s sleek head and rested my knee against her neck. A strangled scream of terror broke from her throat as Carlo gripped her leg, made two shallow cuts, and pulled the wire free. When I sat back, she jumped up as though sprung from a box and bolted in a single leap, disappearing into the desert like a coppery wraith.
Carlo wiped his knife. “Now she will be eaten by hyenas,” he said.
“Better than dying here.” I stood, rested my hand against the mangled fence, looked back at Carlo. “Mason is going to kill me if he finds out about this,” I said.
“I believe he will have a fight on his hands,” Carlo said. He pulled back the wire, giving me clearer passage, then followed me through the gap.
We pressed ourselves against the hospital’s walls, freezing whenever we heard a voice, until we came into the clear near a corner of the administration building, its windows busted. In the parking lot, three fire-blasted sedans lay overturned and smoldering, releasing a tarry smoke. When I lifted my camera, Carlo touched my shoulder and pointed down the street toward the louder shouts and rumblings, the chaos of concentrated commotion. I moved in front of him, but he caught my arm. “Let me go first,” he said, and crept forward until we could see a handful of Arab youths pitching rocks and bottles, chanting their slogans. A clutch of Bedouin militiamen watched from a distance, their faces rouged by the glow of a storage shed that had been set aflame.
“Why aren’t the guards stopping them?” I whispered.
“Why would they?” Carlo said. “They are all Arabs and will not turn on each other if they have an enemy in common.” He knelt on one knee and focused on the rioters.
“But we’re not the enemy,” I said, “and they’re destroying the compound.”
“It is not their compound,” he said, “and you are their enemy’s friend.”
I peered past him to the shadowy faces of the militiamen, who stood at ease. The chief lit a cigarette, threw his match to the gutter, and rested against the hood of his Jeep. I edged ahead of Carlo, crouched behind a hedge of frangipani, its fulsome sweetness perfuming the air, and crept forward until I was within fifty feet of the guardsmen, ignoring Carlo behind me, his voice low and insistent, calling me back.
I rose against the trunk of a date palm, my camera at the ready. As intent as they were o
n the violence, I reasoned, they wouldn’t notice me. I adjusted my lens to take in the rioters, one with his arm cocked, ready to pitch a large rock, even as the leader of the militia calmly watched, on his face a look of pedestrian curiosity. I followed the arc of the stone, saw it hit a window of the Oil Exhibit building, the glass explode into a shower of fragmented light. I held my ground, capturing the smile that broke across the chief’s face as the shards spangled the street. The protestors turned, raised their arms in triumph, and I zoomed in on their faces, masked in the folds of their ghutras, took several quick shots. In that second, Carlo was at my elbow, and I saw the chief peering my way.
“Run, bella.” Carlo pushed me so hard that I stumbled forward before regaining my balance. I thought I could hear his feet hitting the ground behind me, or maybe it was the camera banging against my chest or my heart pounding in my ears, because when I looked back, I saw him still there, squared off with the militiamen, gesticulating wildly. His voice carried on the air, a hectoring mix of English, Arabic, and Italian even as the chief approached, his weapon at the ready. I cut through a lawn, dodged around parked cars, didn’t stop until I reached the hospital, where I flattened myself against a wall shadowed by palms.
How can I explain the strangeness of being caught in that limbo between the silent desert and the riotous calamity filling the streets? I hesitated another moment, but what could I do? I didn’t think that the rioters or militiamen would hurt me, but I knew that if caught with my camera, I would be turned over to the company, who would send me out and maybe Mason too. I told myself that Carlo could clown his way out of anything because I couldn’t bear to contemplate the other possibilities: that he could be beaten, jailed, shipped back to Eritrea because of me.
I stepped through the fence and followed its boundary to where Carlo had parked the Volkswagen in the shade of the tree. The car creaked when I opened the passenger door and slid in as though it, too, were protesting my presence. I peered toward the breach in the fence until I saw a shadow separate, break free. Carlo ran to the car, motioned me into the backseat, and took the wheel. “Stay down,” he commanded, and gunned us onto the road.
I crouched on the floorboard, my knees crammed to my chest. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“My studio,” he said.
I braced myself against the seat, felt the air cool my back, damp with sweat. I lifted my face so that he could hear me. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I said.
“They try to scare me, but they forget how big I am.” He growled a laugh. “They know that I have the protection of the emir.” He lit a cigarette, and I saw his eyes in the rearview lift. “We have lived to see another day, bella,” he said, “and now we have our story to tell.” He inhaled deeply and took up the aria where he had left off, filling the small car with his boisterous vibrato. Half an hour later, he slowed and turned right, and we bounced across the bermed road and railed a long path through the sand before pulling to a stop. I peered out from between the seats, saw a small building on the beach, and then Yousef’s taxi.
Carlo squinted, geared down. “Someone welcomes us home,” he said. He got out, and I heard him speaking in Arabic, Yousef answering, and then the passenger door swung open, and Carlo levered the seat. I clambered out, saw Yousef leaned against his Chevy, the brim of his hat shading his face.
“Howdy,” he said.
“Howdy,” I replied. I couldn’t imagine what he must have thought of me as I followed Carlo toward what looked like a hobo shack, the skull-and-crossbones flying above. The studio was more solid than I had expected, built of large automobile packing crates nailed tight against the winds that stung my ankles. I wasn’t sure who might be inside, but when Carlo swung open the planked door, I saw Linda Dalton in her nurse’s uniform, sitting on a narrow cot. Before I could begin to wonder what she was doing in Carlo’s studio, she arched her eyebrows.
“So,” she said, “imagine my surprise.”
I heard the hint of jealousy in her voice, looked from her to Carlo and back. “We were just taking pictures,” I said.
Linda’s mouth hitched. “I bet you were.”
“Really,” I said, and felt my face redden. “Nothing”—I grimaced—“nothing like that happened.”
Linda crossed her legs, tilted her head my way, ignoring Carlo. “I wouldn’t tell anyone,” she said. “You’ll ruin his reputation.”
Carlo cupped her face in his hands and kissed each of her cheeks. “You are safe,” he said, “and now I am happy.”
“I was just leaving to deliver X-rays to Abqaiq when the riot broke out.” Her eyes softened, and she looked up at Carlo. “It won’t kill anyone if they’re a little late.”
Carlo winked my way, then motioned me to the cot beside Linda, brought us each a warm Pepsi. The hut was surprisingly cool, filtered light coming in through two saw-cut windows bedizened with translucent shells, illuminating the prints tacked to the whitewashed walls.
“What a lucky man I am,” Carlo said, lifting his bottle, “to be in the company of such beautiful women.”
Linda offered me a cigarette. “Maybe it’s a good thing that Ruthie flew to Rome,” she said. “My neighbors marked their house that they were Muslim and ran off.”
I lowered my voice. “We sneaked in through the fence,” I said, “and took pictures.”
Linda’s eyes snapped once. “Are you crazy?” She turned to Carlo. “I thought you of all people would know better.”
Carlo stroked the point of his beard that lifted and settled like the back of a cat, and his tone grew more serious. “They took my camera.” He turned up his palms as though showing us how empty they were. “I will enter a plea with the emir, but I fear it is hopeless.”
I considered only a moment before pulling out my Nikon, still holding the film of the riot. “Until you get yours back,” I said.
He hesitated before shaking his head. “I cannot,” he said. “It is the extension of your very soul.”
“Oh, cut the crap, Carlo,” Linda said. “Just take the damn camera. Gin can buy another one in Khobar. You’re the one who doesn’t have the money.”
Carlo pouted at Linda, his eyes half-lidded. “You are beautiful, amore mio. How I adore you. You make me forget my pain.” He puffed his chest, held out his hand. “If not for you, I would be nothing but a poor pirate.”
Linda stood, slapped the wrinkles from her uniform, and jerked her chin toward the door. “Come on, Gin. I’ve got work to do.”
“Wait.” Carlo grasped her arm, turned her toward him. His gaze had sharpened. “Stay with Carlo awhile longer. I will show you my photographs.”
“Jesus, Carlo.” Linda snatched her arm away. “I’m not one of your little girlfriends.” She settled her shoulder, looked at him from the corner of her eyes. “You’re pathetic, I swear.”
“I am,” Carlo said, his eyes gone soft. “Tu sei la mia stella polare. I am always lost without you.”
I felt something give in Linda and knew just what it was. “I’ll meet you outside,” I said, and pulled the door closed behind me. I looked to the taxi, where Yousef thumbed back his hat. He met my eyes before shaking his head and sliding back into his nap.
I sat in the sand, rested back on my elbows, and watched the water, the thin lines of dhows graphing the horizon, heard the distant sounds of traffic along the highway. A jet, its contrail feathering across the blue dome of sky, reflected a spark of sun. I breathed in the air, tart as a penny, and it came to me that what I was feeling was a kind of solitary pleasure I hadn’t known since I was a girl. In that moment, I allowed myself to imagine that I could be like Carlo, bluff my way through the world, make myself into a pirate who could come and go freely, revel in the unfettered air. I was almost sorry when Linda appeared, carrying her sturdy nurse’s shoes and shushing through the hot sand in her white nylons, regal as a clipper ship. I rose reluctantly and followed her to the taxi. Yousef, roused from his stupor, waited for us to brush off our feet before closing our doors. He
had deflated the oversize tires to give us more traction, but still we skittered and slewed.
“What about the Volkswagen?” I asked.
“Carlo will drive it back.” Linda bobby-pinned her white cap, furiously tucking the loose strands of hair, then shoved on her sunglasses. She smelled sweet and warm, like summer molasses. “I can’t believe you gave him your camera,” she said.
When I started to remind her that she was the one who had convinced him to take it, she waved her hand.
“I know, I know. He always does that to me.” She sucked on her cigarette. “For God’s sake, don’t tell Ruthie. She’ll never let me live it down.” She picked up the envelope of X-rays and groaned. “That’s just swell,” she said. “They’re melted.”
The road was less crowded than usual, Yousef able to stay in a straight line for miles at a time. Linda looked out her window. “I don’t think the rioters want to hurt anybody. They kept apologizing for the inconvenience. Really, they’re not very good at it.” She gave a quiet laugh. “My houseboy told them to leave me alone and lied that I had children inside. Guess I’ll have to keep him after all.” She laid back her head, let the smoke rise from her mouth. “I don’t know what it is about Carlo. Gets me every time.”
“It must not be money,” I said, “like the Moroccan.”
“The Moroccan was DOA,” she said. “Money doesn’t put the moxie in the man.” She turned her face to me. “But Carlo, he has moxie in spades, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said, “and he’s funny and brave and romantic and kind.”
Linda took off her dark glasses, her eyes wistful. “You don’t think I’m foolish for dating a pirate?”
“No,” I said. “Besides, he’s not a pirate. Not really.”
“Sometimes, I like to pretend that he is,” she said, then shook her head. “He flirts with all the women, makes everyone think he’s some kind of Casanova.” She lifted her shoulders. “But he’s just a force of nature.”
“It’s like his photography,” I said. “He loves whatever he sees, and whatever he sees loves him.”