by Kim Barnes
“Yeah,” she said, and turned her eyes back to the road, the sharpness of her features easing, “that’s it exactly.”
It was nearing dusk by the time we reached Abqaiq. Yousef drove me all the way to my door before dropping Linda at the clinic. I stepped in and knew by the savory smells that Yash was making dinner. He hurried to usher me inside, his face pinched with worry, and I heard the local radio announcer’s excited Arabic.
“If you had told me what time you would return,” he said loudly, “I would have had your meal ready.”
“I don’t need a lecture, Yash.” I pulled off my shoes, not caring how much sand I dumped. “I get enough of those when Mason is home.”
He straightened, cut his eyes to the living room, and I saw Mason enter from the hallway, his hair still wet from the shower. He didn’t even acknowledge I was there, just sat down on the couch, lit a cigarette, and lifted his chin to Yash.
“What’s the latest?” he asked.
Yash snapped to attention. “Sahib, King Faisal has agreed to join the embargo. Aramco is forbidden to ship oil to the United States or Britain. All incoming flights are being diverted to Rome.” He moved with my shoes to the door, turned them upside down, shook them vigorously, and continued his report. “The Saudis are threatening to nationalize if the U.S. continues its support of Israel. The king assures Americans protection”—he kept his gaze on his task—“as long as they remain inside the compounds.”
Mason glared at me. “I need a drink,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen. When I heard ice dropping into a glass, I turned to Yash.
“What is he doing home?” I hissed.
“Mrs. Gin,” Yash said, and lifted his hands, “there is a war.”
I set my mouth. “You’re eating with us,” I said. “Don’t even bother to argue.”
I sat and waited with my hands in my lap until Mason came to the table. He hesitated when he saw the three place settings, then took his chair at the head. “Are we expecting company?”
“Just Yash,” I said, and arranged my napkin. “I don’t think it’s safe out there for him.”
Mason looked toward the closed doors of the kitchen, then back at me. “Where in the hell have you been all day?”
I slathered two rounds of dosa with ghee, laid one on his plate. “I was at the club,” I said, my heart racing, “playing cards with Candy.”
He settled his eyes on me. “You’ve never been any good at lying, Ginny Mae,” he said. “What I’m beginning to wonder is just how much you’re lying about.”
I opened my mouth, shut it again, afraid that I would dig myself deeper. Mason picked up his bread, set it down.
“Do you think I’m the one who makes up the rules around here? You can be mad at me all you want, but it doesn’t change a damn thing.” He leaned in. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble and pull me right in with you, and then where will we be? Back in that Oklahoma oil patch, that’s where.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t need you drawing attention right now. I’ve got an inside lead on the deal with Bodeen and Alireza, someone I think might listen to what I’ve got to say, and I don’t want you messing it up.”
I sat very still, like I had as a child when I believed I might make myself invisible, grateful when the kitchen doors swung open and Yash appeared, bearing a deep dish of steaming butter chicken. He hesitated for a moment until Mason motioned him forward. Yash never met our eyes as he took his place at the table, his carriage polite enough to demand that we be civil. We ate in silence for a few minutes until the sound of my own chewing was about to drive me mad.
“Yash,” I said, and he looked up, a little alarmed. I gave him an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you tell us more about India.”
He pressed his napkin to his mouth and cleared his throat. “I must say that this current situation has reminded me a bit of my own country’s history.”
I let the tension ease from my shoulders. Such an introduction could only mean a long oratory. I glanced at Mason, whose eyes were fixed on his food as though he couldn’t stand the sight of either one of us.
“The 1947 British partition of India,” Yash continued, “produced one of the largest human migrations ever recorded. A multitude of Muslims journeyed north to their new home of Pakistan, the Hindus and Sikhs south to their new India, and as they passed, they slew one another by the thousands.”
Mason’s eyes flicked up for a moment.
“My family had a private car and was in no danger, but I vividly remember the refugee trains. It was bedlam, the people tearing at one another to climb on board.” Yash paused, seemed to go more deeply into himself, his voice a little quieter. “Along the route of migration, a family of Muslims that had fallen behind the caravans huddled and wept. We slowed to allow a few goats to be herded from the road, and I peered into the faces of the dying old man and his wife, propped among their few belongings. He was nothing but bones, his only covering a scrap of dirty linen at his loins. His eyes, rolled to the heavens, terrified me, but when I pointed him out to my father, he said it would be better that they all died that way.” He lowered his eyes. “I suppose that like most people, he viewed those he had set himself against as animals. It is the only way we can justify our survival over their destruction.”
“Is that what Gandhi said?” I asked, but Yash shook his head.
“It is what experience teaches,” he said. “What Gandhi said was that the idea that the world’s religions must be separated was for him a denial of God.”
Mason considered Yash as though he were seeing him for the first time, then pushed back his plate. “What is your take on the riots?” he asked.
“A minor form of revolt.” Yash graciously took the cigarette Mason offered.
“You know what Martin Luther King said, don’t you?” Mason popped his lighter. “ ‘A riot is the language of the unheard.’ ”
Yash drew in a breath. “Truly, in the long history of occupation,” he said, “the Arab-American experience is extraordinary. No war has been waged, no genocide enacted, no peoples enslaved. The land has remained in the hands of the kingdom, as has the government and its affairs,” he said, “yet it remains a form of colonization.”
Mason nodded. “Corporate colonization.”
“And with colonization comes resistance,” Yash said. “One wonders if the Americans won’t regret their temperate regard for this country’s sovereignty. It is a point of great hubris, believing that you can control what you first do not conquer.”
“Nationalization would allow the Saudis to take control of the company.” Mason squinted at Yash. “Isn’t that what these riots are really about? The Arabs want us out, want to claim what’s theirs.”
“It is about all of it,” Yash said. “What matters in this case is that both the United States and Israel believe that they are exceptional, that they are God’s chosen people. In this way, they have yoked their destinies. Whoever rises up against one must rise up against the other, and that is the Saudi dilemma.”
“You don’t think we can bridge that divide?” Mason asked.
Yash tensed his lips. “The Bedu have a saying. ‘I against my brothers, I and my brothers against my cousins, I and my brothers and my cousins against the world.’ ” He stubbed his cigarette, glanced at his watch. “It is late,” he said, and rose with his cup. “I will finish my cleaning and be on my way.”
“Let me help.” I stood quickly and gathered our plates, refusing to look at Mason. I wasn’t sure what he would say to me once we were alone, but I knew I didn’t want to hear it. I followed Yash into the kitchen, helped him wash, dry, and put away the dishes, and for once, he didn’t protest. He stowed his apron, and I saw him to the door.
“Be careful,” I said.
“Shubh ratri,” he said quietly. “Sleep well, Mrs. Gin.” He balanced his bike. “I will wait to hear the lock.”
I closed the door and released the bolt, listened to the creak of his bicycle become more distant. I went bac
k to the table, but Mason kept his eyes on his whiskey.
“I’m just going to bed,” I said. When he didn’t respond, I turned down the hallway, showered, and lay between the sheets, guilty and confused. The war seemed distant and impossible, secondary to my own little world of turmoil. Mason was always showing up when I least expected him, and it dawned on me that I could never really know where he was, what he was doing, when he might catch me by surprise.
I flipped my pillow, pressed my cheek to the cool side. I had never considered my marriage to Mason a mistake, but I was beginning to wonder—who might I have been if, instead of getting into Mason’s car that night, I had finished school, somehow gone to college, gotten a real job? Someone like Linda, single and free to make love to a pirate if I wanted.
I rolled to my side, twisted the sheet beneath my chin. “I could have been a stewardess for Pan Am,” I said aloud. I didn’t care whether Mason heard me, didn’t care whether he came to bed or not, I told myself. I didn’t care whether he ever came to bed again.
Chapter Thirteen
On the ninth of June, less than a week after the war had begun, it was over. I sat in the welcome cool and listened with Yash and Mason to the broadcast of President Nasser’s speech, blaming the Americans for Egypt’s loss to Israel, but whatever trouble still brewed outside the compound never made it past the Abqaiq gate. Within a matter of hours, it seemed, the avenues were again filled with delivery vans and company cars, the swimming pool bustling with mothers and toddlers back from their forced vacations. Ruthie, her voice full of the old bravado, called to say that, like many of the wives who had evacuated, she was taking an extra week or two to do a little shopping, Israel’s victory over Egypt a welcome excuse for a holiday.
Since the start of the war, Mason’s time at home had been taken up with endless production meetings that lasted well into the evening, the company in the throes of new imperatives, as though pumping more barrels into the rift left by the war might seal King Faisal’s allegiance.
“What about Alireza?” I asked Mason one morning.
“It’s not like I can just show up at headquarters and file a complaint,” he answered. “I’ve got to be careful. Put this in front of the wrong people, and I might as well burn that ledger and hop the next plane out of here.”
I looked down, worried my ring finger. “I hope they put him in jail,” I said.
Mason shook out a cigarette. “I’m guessing they won’t do a damn thing to Alireza,” he said. “He’s too big, too powerful. My interest is in setting things right, making the company stand up and take responsibility. This is just the kind of thing that will put more pressure on Aramco to make concessions, bring more attention to the workers’ cause.”
“If Alireza got in trouble,” I said, “maybe Abdullah’s sister could get her divorce and keep her baby.”
“The rules are different here,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”
“Then who is going to help her?” I asked. “She’s just a girl.”
“She’s also a Bedouin,” he said, and ran a knuckle over his lips. “Best that you leave all that go, Gin, and take care of your other business.”
But what other business did I have? No assignments from Nestor, no camera, no Ruthie. I spent the remaining days until Mason left for the launch chafing at the emptiness of time marked by meals, the muezzin’s call, the company’s noon whistle that broke the day in two. I hounded Yash in the kitchen, considered the still’s steady percolation. Was it any surprise that so many Aramco wives slept the mornings away, claiming headaches brought on by the heat?
“I’m bored out of my mind, Yash, I swear,” I said.
He ran a rag around the rim of a water glass. “You can take your photographs.”
“I can’t,” I confessed. “I gave my camera to Carlo.” When Yash raised his eyes, I shrugged one shoulder. “What’s for dinner?” I asked. “Mason won’t be home until late. Looks like it’s just the two of us.”
I helped him set the table, chatting about my plans for next year’s garden until he became more relaxed, and we ate in easy conversation, Yash swirling his after-dinner coffee as though it were wine, sharing humorous stories rife with the gossip of houseboys: Swede’s wife, her arms and legs like brittle sticks, had stashed bars of Ex-Lax in her freezer and taken enemas twice a day, while chunky Edna Doty, twice the width of Tiny, had a drawer full of bright red garter belts and wide-paddled brushes that never touched a hair on her head. Whatever secrets the wives hoped to shelter, the houseboys discovered, each servant’s discretion tempered by his treatment at the hands of his mistress, and I wondered what Yash had told them about me.
“Which reminds me,” Yash said, “Mrs. Fullerton called. It seems she scheduled you a golf lesson yesterday afternoon, but you failed to appear.”
“Candy Fullerton,” I said, “is not a nice person.” I gave him a sideways look. “What do you know about her and Carlo?”
“Nothing that is not true.” Yash ticked an eyebrow. “She may have fallen under the rake’s spell, although it’s most likely that she tripped him first.”
“She’s the manager’s wife,” I said, wondering whether Linda knew. “I can’t believe she would do that.”
“It is convenient to believe that we are above all vices but our own.” He listed his head to the side. “Do you know,” he asked, “that to test his vow of celibacy, Gandhi brought his virgin grandniece to his bed, had her remove all her clothing, and lay with her through the night? His followers were shocked.”
“I wonder what the grandniece thought,” I said.
Yash smiled. “He was an old man by then. Perhaps she teased him cruelly.” He took a drink of his coffee, drew back into himself. “But I’m sure that this is not the kind of story you wish to hear.” He rolled his mouth. “It is difficult to compete with your friend the Bedouin.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. I pinched a piece of chapati. “What else you got?”
“Perhaps adventure.” Yash looked into his coffee. “Or maybe a love story.” He ran his fingers along the tablecloth like he was reading Braille. “You have asked me about my wife.”
“You must miss her,” I said.
“I do.” He furrowed his brow. “She died giving birth to our son.”
“Oh, Yash,” I said, “I’m sorry.” I waited a heartbeat, the bread going dry in my mouth. “But your son, he lived?”
“Yes, he lived.” Yash’s shoulders bunched, released. “But I couldn’t bear to see her face in his and drank to blind myself. I lost my commission in the army, our home, and when they took my son from me, I lost everything.” He inhaled through his nose, let it out slowly, as though trying to regain his control. “When I read of the call for servants in Arabia, it seemed a way to escape my sorrow, which is how I have come to be here, a sober man but no more happy.” He paused for a moment, then rose to gather our dishes. “Sahib will be home soon.”
I didn’t say what I was thinking, which was that it hardly mattered. Mason and I had spent the days since the war in mutual disregard, as though we were the ones in détente. Each morning, I waited until he left before rising, kept my nose in a book if he showed for lunch, went to bed early when he arrived back home. He seemed happy enough to ignore my sulk, and I was counting the hours until he would leave again. The truce between us might have held if not for Candy Fullerton.
I came home from my swim at the pool that Saturday to find Mason in the bathroom, freshly shaved and showered. I watched him part his hair, combing the wave from front to back.
“Another meeting?” I asked, but he shook his head.
“We’re going to the Fullertons’ for dinner,” he said.
“But it’s your last night home,” I said. “We could go see a movie.”
“A movie isn’t going to tell me what I need to know.” He pulled on his shirt and buttoned the cuffs. “Better get ready,” he said.
Just do this, I told myself. Tomorrow, he’ll be gone.<
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I showered, put on makeup and fixed my hair, then pulled on the little black dress that I had bought at Fawzi Jishi’s when Ruthie had insisted that every girl should have one. I stopped in the living room long enough to pick up the photo taken that day we had boarded the pearling dhow. Despite his disparaging comments about Carlo’s talents, Yash had mounted the photograph in a lovely bamboo frame. It made me happy to see Ruthie beside me there, both of us laughing into the sun.
I rode in silence as Mason drove the Volkswagen to the Fullertons’, the engine chattering to a stop in front of their flat-roofed bungalow lush with flowering shrubs, its veranda spiked with tiki torches. He pulled the emergency brake, turned his face without looking.
“Let’s not rock the boat,” he said. “This is important to me.”
I sat with my hands in my lap. “I know,” I said.
He took a deep breath and stepped out to open my door. When his fingers brushed my elbow, I felt a little shock—the first touch we’d had in a week. Before we could make the porch, I heard a dog yapping, and Ross came booming out.
“Sit, sit,” he commanded, and directed us to a circle of wicker chairs arranged around a low table, then motioned to the Syrian houseboy. “Bring it on, Henri.” Henri came with mint juleps, a bowl of nuts, and a layered tray of tiny cucumber sandwiches alternating with red radishes pared into petals and filled with dollops of dilled mayonnaise, bacon, and olives. “Candy’s putting on her war paint,” Ross said. He adjusted his crotch and crossed his legs. “You’re looking mighty nice tonight, Ginny Mae.” Mason glanced at me, as though he had forgotten to notice.
“Thank you,” I said, and pulled my wrap over my bare arms, relieved when the conversation turned to baseball. I surveyed the porch, remembering the summer nights when my grandfather had moved our chairs outside to take relief from the heat. The cooling air, the coming darkness, all gave comfort to the concerns of the day, and he would take up his fiddle, pull the bow, tune his voice to the note, begin slow and easy. He sang out into the open of the cotton fields, sang with the cicadas’ chorus, and I would watch the lightning bugs star the sky, the happiest I ever was in his company.