A Thorned Rose in the Sand

by Lea Bronsen

  But… There was always a but, right?

  As she’d come back to the tent, an ugly question had dawned on her: Why did he choose to please himself alone? Twice during the day, they’d been so near, she’d noticed his erection. Surely, it had been a reaction to her, no? So, if he’d been attracted to her, why leave her and go jerk off on his own? Because she’d told him about the abuse and he’d insisted there would be “no nothing” between them because he wanted to protect her?

  Or…had he been dreaming of another woman?

  Oh, God, she didn’t know anything about him, did she? Whether he had a secret lover he masturbated to in her absence, or someone he’d loved in the past, who he kept recalling when he needed to get off?

  The awful words he’d said, “go away,” twice, strengthened that idea. At first, she’d doubted that he’d talked to her, as he’d kept his eyes closed and spoken low, but Jesus Christ, who the fuck had he talked to, then? There was no one else in the goddamn Sahara in the middle of the night, was there?

  Her chest hurt as if something inhuman squeezed, forcing all air out of her lungs. She’d fallen too hard for Ragab—it wasn’t only a “small crush”—while he’d been busy thinking about another woman and, at the first possible occasion, left to jack off to her memory.

  Hours later, after a breakfast of mint tea and home-made biscuits served by Ragab’s mother on a carpet outside the tent, Stevie brought her luggage to her motorbike. The punishing sun climbed high in the bright blue sky, heating the air she breathed. She had a long road ahead, but before she even started, the thick rally clothes made her sticky with sweat. Worse, her head buzzed and ached from lack of sleep, and the warring emotions within drove her crazy. Not the best conditions to drive on a difficult terrain.

  Ragab hadn’t returned, and Usain was missing.

  She tried holding back her tears.

  Was he angry with her? Did he think she’d been spying? If only he would give her the chance to apologize and explain. She hadn’t meant to walk into him in the dunes! It wasn’t like her to sneak up on people. She wasn’t the nosy kind—on the contrary, she demanded discretion, and so in return she gave it, too.

  Feeling sick, she strapped her luggage to the back seat when his mother came from behind the camp with a bucket of goat milk in hand and her daughters in tow. The little girls wore colorful dresses, and bands of cotton and pearls decorated their braided hair.

  Stevie stopped working and asked the black-clothed woman, “Have you seen Ragab? I need to talk to him.”

  His mother lifted her shoulders, didn’t speak English. Neither did the girls.

  “’Ayn hu?” Stevie’s Arabic sucked, but she could at least ask where he was.

  Shaking her head, his mother put the bucket on the ground, stepped forward, and took Stevie into her arms, as if to tell her she accepted her, or maybe that she understood how she was feeling. Holding her for a moment, she delivered a long line in this foreign language, voice raucous.

  Stevie didn’t understand much, except “Choukran.” The woman thanked Stevie, but for what? For bringing her little son to the hospital?

  Oh, but that had been nothing. It was only natural to help. By the way, maybe she could stop at the hospital and say hello, since she had to drive through Erfoud to get to Fez. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  She said, “Choukran,” too. She really did have a lot to thank for. Her two-day stay with the desert nomads had been a most enlightening and educational experience. An adventure of the rare kind. Even if she came back one day, this time, this moment, would be forever etched in her mind.

  Leila and Aida stood watching the scene, their dark brown eyes—the same as Ragab’s—sparkling with expectation.

  Stevie searched a pocket, found a pack of chewing gum, and handed it to them.

  They screamed and danced in delight, as if it were a sensational gift.

  Neighbors stuck their heads out of the other tents.

  “Maʿ al-salāmah!” Stevie waved good-bye at them before kneeling and holding out her arms to Ragab’s sweet little sisters. They came into a girl group hug that had her choke. Was this their last time together?

  And what about Ragab?

  Tears rushed to her eyes, filling them so her vision blurred, and rolled down her cheeks like warm rivers of hurt. Releasing the girls, she got up, turned her back to the Bedouin camp, and started the motor. No, she didn’t want to leave.

  The asphalt road to Erfoud felt like pure heaven compared to the rough track of part sand, part rock out of the desert. Her big rally bike had sounded like an angry wasp as she’d piloted it up, down, left, right. Now, worn out by two sleepless nights in the Sahara and more emotion handling than she was used to, she appreciated the engine’s constant, purr-like roar on a flat surface that wound lazily along deep palm groves.

  If someone asked her what she wanted the most at that very moment, she would say a bath. Secondly, a bed. And thirdly, well… She’d rather not think about him.

  The closer she came to civilization, the more traffic grew, and soon she followed a long line of tourist buses, rusty old French cars, overfilled trucks, and tiny motorcycles. This week, the otherwise sleepy town held its annual palm date festival, attracting thousands of local farmers and tourists from all over the world. Maybe she could just as well stay here for a day or two before continuing to Fez. Besides the popular festivities, Erfoud offered tourist attractions such as a royal palace and a quarry of five-hundred-million-year-old fossils. Enough to get her mind off a certain someone messing with her heart.

  Traffic slowed, and ahead appeared the tall, elaborately decorated gates of Erfoud. Her heart beat a little faster. If she’d arrived two days prior, she would have completed the rally. No such luck. But she wasn’t sorry. Although her biggest dream coming to Morocco had been to cross the finish line with the guys, preferably as number one, she hadn’t missed out on anything and would gladly give up any trophy for two more days in the land that felt like a second home.

  Chapter Twelve

  The stench of gasoline filled the busy streets of Erfoud, which buzzed with life due to its three-day celebration of date harvest. Ragab scrunched his nose, dodging the traffic and ignoring insistent car horns as his faithful dromedary trotted toward the hospital. In the back, overlooking the fortified oasis town, towered a red-colored hill with a military building on top and green palm trees at its feet.

  They passed an open space with a big crowd chatting excitedly around a dozen dromedaries. Usain groaned and trumpeted. It smelled competitors, and maybe a female or two, and its blood boiled with excitement like Ragab’s used to before a race. They often participated. Whenever he felt low or needed to vent, racing helped overcome the bad feelings. It even beat masturbating, which he was sick of for now anyway, after having been very embarrassingly caught in the act.

  Usain threw its long neck from side to side and trumpeted again, informing the other dromedaries about its presence and warning it was the strongest, the fastest.

  Ragab knew his mount. He’d practically made it. He’d helped its mother during birth. Then as it grew up a lively foal, he’d noted its qualities and competitive instincts and trained it to be his best race dromedary.

  He leaned forward and clapped his companion’s flank. “I’m sorry we’re not running today, my friend. I know you love it, but I’m not in the mood.”

  He was drained; it had taken half the night and a good chunk of the day to get here. Then there was Stevie. He’d never fallen for a woman, but he’d always known that when the right one came along, he would fall hard. His reaction to Stevie told him there was something about her. But she couldn’t be the right woman. He had to find someone stable and selfless who stayed by his side, loved his nomadic lifestyle, and gave him many children. Not a reckless motorcycle driver bent on beating the big boys in the game and risking her life in the process.

  The hospital’s dusty red-brick building came into view. His heart beat a quicker cadence. He’d seldom
worried himself sick for a family member. Maybe it was his studies that had taught him too much. Sometimes, he wished he were a normal man who didn’t know all the details about diseases and the human body’s anatomy and functions.

  Outside the reception stood an old Peugeot station wagon, motor idling. A man in a brown tunic leaned into the back seat, talking to someone or fixing a seat belt.

  As Ragab approached, the man stepped back and straightened, his black turban appearing. That color combination, that stance… Father?

  “Ab!” Ragab kicked Usain’s flanks so they galloped over to them. Dad.

  The old man spun toward him, wide-eyed. “Abnay!” His sunburnt, wrinkled face lit up in a smile. My son.

  Ragab pulled Usain to a stop, hopped off, and hugged his dad. “Is he released?”

  “Yes, one day early. The surgeon says there’s no reason to keep him here.”

  “That’s great news!”

  “He’s a strong boy.”

  A squeal and a metallic click sounded from inside the car, and out sprang Ali, looking as healthy and energetic as before.

  Filling with relief, Ragab crouched and reached out for him.

  The little boy threw himself at him so hard, Ragab nearly lost his balance. “Ragaaab!” He flung his thin arms around Ragab’s neck. “Can we play football today?”

  “I’m so glad to see you.” Ragab swallowed to control his bubbling gratitude. When he loved, he loved fiercely, until the end. He set his brother down and held him at arm’s length. “You look good, little man. And yes, when we come home, we’ll play football.” He glanced from Father to the open car door. “What’s going on? Whose car is this?”

  “It’s a taxiii!” called Ali with another squeal.

  “But…” Ragab turned to Father. “We don’t have money for it.”

  “It’s already been paid for.”

  Ragab blinked, incredulous. “By whom?”

  “I’ll let you have a guess.” The corners of Father’s black eyes creased with a smile. He looked very pleased with himself.

  Ragab racked his brain but couldn’t think of anyone willing to pay, what, several hundred dirhams to transport his family into the desert? More money than they spent on food in a year. “Who? A friend of yours? I didn’t know you were so well acquainted.”

  Ali jumped up and down, kicking up red dust. “The cool biker woman who drove us here yesterday!”

  Stevie?

  Taking a step back in surprise, Ragab squinted as questions assaulted him. Why? How? Wasn’t she supposed to drive to Fez? Where was she now?

  Father said, “She visited us earlier and said it would be better for Ali to be taken home by car after the surgery.”

  Dumbfounded, Ragab nodded. “There’s no doubt about that. It’s very generous of her.”

  “Yes. Very generous. I regret that I don’t speak her language so I could thank her appropriately.”

  “Oh, it’s okay. She doesn’t want thanks. She’s just happy to help.”

  Father studied him. “You know her well.”

  “Yes, she’s that kind of person.” Then it hit him: She was fantastic. Reckless and fiery, yes, but beautiful inside out—a thorned rose—and he missed her more than he’d thought he could miss a woman.

  Was he never going to see her again?

  Ever?

  Pain rushed through him, clotting his throat. His eyes stung.

  But he mustn’t show his feelings. In order to preserve his sharaf, which had already taken a serious blow lately, he spun and grabbed bags hanging from Usain’s saddle. “I’ve bought these. Sugar, some flour, a bottle of olive oil...” He handed the bags to Father, sideways, not looking at him. “Since you have a car, you can bring them home. And could you please stop at the souq and stock up on rice—take a twenty-five-kilo bag, for example. And we’re running out of dates, so—”

  “Ragab, look at me.”

  He paused, stared at Usain’s blue rope leash, and dug his fingers into the dromedary’s thick neck hair. Father’s word was command, but he couldn’t face him.

  “My son.” Father’s hand set on his arm and tugged. “Look at me.”

  After some swallowing, Ragab hardened his face and obeyed, meeting Father’s wise gaze. He estimated his age to be about sixty years—Mother was his second wife—and a lifetime of experiences shone in his eyes.

  Father stared for a moment, before saying, voice firm but gentle, “My son, you have sacrificed years of your life studying in a foreign country so you can heal our neighbors and friends. And when I have been away, you have been responsible for your mother, your sisters, and our livestock. I am proud of you. You have taken care of everyone. Now I think it is time you take care of yourself.” He put a hand on Ragab’s chest. “Your heart is hurting.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Driving in Erfoud was easier the second time around as Stevie had memorized the road map, a skill she’d learned during the intense pre-rally preparations. But her navigation training didn’t help much in the depths of the town center, where masses of people filled the narrow streets like busy ants, without care for traffic. Her motorbike was a nervous competition enduro machine jerking at the slightest command, so she had to play a slow, careful game of release-a-little-clutch, give-a-little-gas, pull-a-little-brake, and repeat, in order not to run anyone over. Unnerving. She’d zipped open her jacket, but sweat ran in rivulets down her neck and chest.

  Even at snail-speed, the KTM’s powerful four-stroke motor growled, the loud rumble echoing between stores and vending stalls and attracting surprised glances here, curious smiles there, envious stares from some, and cheerful waves from others. Seated high on her bike and plowing through the crowd like some royalty, she laughed and waved back. To soldiers and policemen, veiled women in black, old men wearing djellaba robes, mustached businessmen in fine suits, kids dolled-up in festive colors, and wide-eyed tourists, of course… Oh, and handsome young men in jeans and t-shirts and the same gaze, the same gleam, as Ragab.

  Ragab!

  Her heart squeezed. She already missed his humor, his keen attention, the way he looked at her, how he made her feel when they touched… How could she leave the country without having the chance to explain what happened? She may have been surrounded by hundreds, if not a thousand men, but would never meet another like he, generous, intelligent, respectful, and spirited. She had no choice but to move on and forget about him.

  Anyway, she was glad she’d dropped by the hospital earlier and found she could do more still for his family. Paying for a taxi to make sure little Ali came home quickly and safely after the appendectomy was the least she could do. His old father would no doubt appreciate the comfort, too.

  Money wasn’t an issue. Dad had made a lot running an engineering company for years and sponsored everything from her thirty-thousand-dollar custom-made bike to the plane tickets and support team. And he’d given her enough pocket money to play rich tourist if she wanted to, but she didn’t. She wasn’t made like that.

  Looking for a place to park, she inched her way through the street, which resembled a souq market, with stall after stall offering the town specialty—dried dates—and all kinds of fruit, vegetables, mint leaves, cold-pressed olive oil, rose water, cookies and sweets, rolls of colorful turban fabric, gemstones from the Atlas, handcrafted silver jewelry, tin and brass artifacts, pottery, shoes and straw hats, baskets, oriental carpets… So much to see, to taste! Different exotic scents floated in the air, and lively Arabic music accompanied the crowd chatter. She absolutely loved being here, took her time to relish the experience.

  There, up front, a store selling the most beautiful Moroccan-tile dresses. Having brought nothing else to wear than her rally gear, she had to buy something for her remaining two days as a tourist.

  She found a vacant spot between a soda stand and a wide stall displaying bags of red, yellow, and green spices. She parked and locked her bike before walking with her helmet in hand—never leave anything that can be sto
len—to the dress store to pick something nice.

  A group of disheveled kids followed her, some begging for baksheesh and others just staring. She’d been advised not to give tips because the stream of beggars would never end, so instead, she bought a huge bag of sweets and handed them out to the many small hands fluttering around her. The kids cheered, excited, and asked for more, so she obliged happily. It felt rewarding that such a modest gesture could bring so much joy, but at the same time, it stung to think these kids perhaps didn’t have a home, a decent meal a day, education, or a future at all. As a resourceful person coming from a rich world, she would like to do a lot more than give sweets, but didn’t know how yet. She made a mental note to give this some serious consideration when she had better time.

  Once the dealing out ended, she waved good-bye, entered the air-conditioned store, and gaped. Dresses covered the walls floor-to-ceiling, with too many styles and colors and fabrics to choose from. Strong perfume filled her nostrils. After standing in the middle for a moment, at a loss, she picked a rather simple and cheap green one that matched her red hair, paid the smiling woman behind a counter without bothering to haggle, and went out into the intense heat again.

  A small crowd surrounded her bike, studying it and discussing. As she came nearer, a blond man stood out in the flock, wearing rally gear with flashy fluorescent details. One of her competitors.

  He turned to her and grinned, pale blue eyes in a sunburnt face. “Cool bike,” he said with an east-European accent.

  She nodded. “The best. Did you complete?”

  “Sure, but that was two days ago. Where have you been all that time? I remember seeing you in Fez. There aren’t so many women riders, so…”

  “Got stuck in the sand between Merzouga and Erfoud. A nomad helped me out, and since I didn’t finish the race, I visited the countryside instead. Very beautiful.”