In the Kingdom of Men Page 11

  “I thought she was gone,” I said, but what interested me more was how different he had become with Mason not around—more vulnerable, somehow, almost timid.

  “The emir admired her, and so I gave her to him as a gift.” His face filled with pride. “She won today’s race.”

  I leaned forward in my seat, taken with possibility. “There’s no law against a woman riding a horse outside the gates, is there?”

  “It depends upon who is with her.”

  “You?” I asked.

  “Not alone,” he said.

  I sat quiet, considering my options. “What about Ruthie? I bet I could talk her into going with us.”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “If not your husband, then your father or uncle or brother or son.”

  “I don’t have a father or uncle or brother or son,” I said.

  “I am sorry,” he said, and I saw his shoulders lift and fall, “but you are ghayr mahram, forbidden to me. And even if I did have your husband’s permission to take you into the desert …”

  “What?” I asked.

  He dropped his eyes from the rearview. “My mother would never allow it.”

  I groaned and fell back, sat silent for a long minute before looking out over the compound, its lines fusing in the slackening light. I took a deep breath and rested my head against the side window. “When will it rain again?”

  “As Allah wills.” In the sharp silence, he seemed to be deciding something before softening his voice. “A cloud gathers, the rain falls, men live. The cloud disperses without rain, and men and animals die.” His face lifted in the apricot dusk, his eyes taking in the neat homes and manicured lawns, the avenues paved with asphalt. He straightened himself, peered straight ahead. “I should return for your husband.”

  I reached for the door handle and stepped too quickly to the asphalt, nearly pitching into the bougainvillea. When Abdullah got out to help me, I held up my hand.

  “I’m fine,” I said. I crossed my arms as though the hot wind were a chilling breeze. “What you said about the rain, was it poetry?”

  “The words of Sir Wilfred Thesiger,” he said, “a British explorer and friend to the Bedu.” He tilted his face away and gathered his robes.

  “Abdullah?” I said, and he turned back to me. “Are you sure we can’t go riding?”

  He hesitated before returning my smile. “We shall see,” he said. “Peace be upon you.”

  “And upon you peace,” I said. I waited until the Land Cruiser disappeared before turning for the porch. I startled when Faris appeared like a ghost only a few feet away. In the fading light, I hadn’t seen him bent near the house’s foundation, where he had been deadheading the roses, his red-and-white ghutra mixing with the blooms.

  “Faris, you scared me,” I said, wondering whether he had been watching me and Abdullah.

  He looked at me seriously, then showed me the shears, a fistful of withered petals.

  “Yes, I see.” I felt my headache coming back, my earlobes beginning to ache, an irritation at the back of my neck where the sand had sifted into my collar. I surveyed the newer buds, tight and edged brown, the leaves curled. “They look thirsty.” I knelt and burrowed my finger in the soil, held it up. “They need more water,” I said, and then louder, as though he might be deaf, “more water.”

  I straightened and entered the house, saw that Yash had cleared the dirty glasses, emptied the ashtrays, and cut a spray of jasmine to sweeten the room before leaving for the day. I showered and lay on the bed, waiting for Mason to come home, halfway wishing he wouldn’t. I didn’t like the way he was bossing me around, treating me like a child, but what could I do without embarrassing us both? “It is better to dwell in the wilderness, than with a contentious and an angry woman,” King Solomon had said. Even outside of the church, the few wives I knew who went against their husbands’ wishes and brawled with them in public were looked upon with disgust and the husbands with pity. Maybe it was true that the best negotiations were made in bed, but I hated the manipulative nature of pleasing Mason in order to win some favor. It felt like cheating. I could guess Ruthie’s response—Get over it, kid.

  It was past dark when I heard the familiar sound of a basketball hitting the pavement, bouncing, hitting again. I rose, walked to the living room, and cracked the blinds. Mason and Abdullah circled in the vaporous haze of a street lamp, Mason’s sleeves rolled, Abdullah’s thobe lifted and tucked, revealing loose cotton drawers that reached to his ankles. They dodged and dribbled, faked, jumped up and away from each other’s raised arms. There was something thrilling about watching without their knowing I was there, as though I were seeing something forbidden through a peephole, their grunts of pleasure and exertion. When they slowed and bent to catch their breath, I returned to bed, still awake when Mason came naked from the shower. I molded myself to his side, touched the softness between his ribs.

  “I saw you and Abdullah playing basketball,” I said.

  He rested his hands on his chest. “No competition,” he said, his words clipped.

  “Are you upset with me?”

  He lay quiet for a moment, as though he weren’t sure. “Just surprised, that’s all.”

  “It was only Ruthie,” I said, and touched the bowl of his hip. “She knows everything there is to do around here.”

  He exhaled through his nose. “Seems like you’re doing it all at once.”

  I rose up on my elbow. “Guess what I bought,” I said.

  “I’m too tired to guess,” Mason said. “Just tell me.”

  “A bikini,” I said, as though the word itself were enough to shock the breath right out of him. “Do you want to see it?” I asked brightly, then turned on the lamp, went quickly into the bathroom, and pulled on my suit, lifting my breasts to gain cleavage. I opened the door and posed like a pinup, elbows akimbo, then stretched out on my side next to Mason and closed my eyes as he ran his hand down the wale of my waist. When he rolled me to my back and touched his fingers to my nipples and then the thin strip of fabric between my legs, I sucked a quick breath, my hips bucking up. I pushed against him, felt his hand go still. When I opened my eyes, I saw him looking down at me like he had never seen me before.

  “Come on,” I whispered. I searched between us, felt the softness there. Mason fell to his back, rested his arm over his eyes.

  “I told you,” he said, “I’m tired.” He reached for the lamp, switched it off.

  I stared into the dark, the pleasure draining from me like dirty water. When I touched his shoulder, he flinched.

  “Just let me go to sleep,” he said. “Abdullah’s going to be here early.”

  I drew my hand away, tucked it between my knees, wondering what I had done wrong. I told myself to leave him alone, that it would be better in the morning, but I could feel him beside me, taut as a wire. I took a deep breath, tried again.

  “Tell me,” I said, “what it’s like.”

  He didn’t say anything at first, and then his words came slow and muted. “I’m ramrodding a crew of Bedouins who have never worked nine to five in their lives,” he said. “Every few hours, they’ve got to stop and pray. Only a few of them speak any English at all.” I saw the silhouette of his arm, his hand running through his hair. “It’s not like any job I’ve ever had before. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

  “It’s all new,” I said. “You’ll learn.”

  “It’s not just that it’s new,” he said.

  I hesitated before touching his face, then kissed the scar at the corner of his mouth. I moved my lips down his throat to his chest, taking my time, until I reached the tight muscles of his stomach, the delicate skin. When he caught his breath, I slid lower, and he jerked like an electrical shock had charged through his bones.

  “Jesus, Gin,” he said, and arched toward me. It was nothing like that bottle, nothing at all, and when he was finished, he held me against him so tightly I couldn’t breathe. “Who are you?” he whispered at my ear.

  “J
ust me,” I said. “Virginia Mae McPhee.” But I wasn’t so sure anymore.

  Chapter Six

  When Yash arrived the next morning, I was already up and in the kitchen, furiously frying the bacon I’d gotten at the pork store. An hour before, I had stepped out with Mason to kiss him good-bye and found all the roses pulled out by the roots, in their place a fresh planting of night-blooming jasmine. “Faris did it,” I had said to Mason, who had lifted his hands, unmoved. “He’s an old man, set in his ways,” Mason had answered. “Best to leave it alone.”

  I glared at Yash as though he might be in on it too. “Next thing I know,” I said, “Faris will be taking over the garden.”

  Yash hesitated before pulling up the bar stool. “It is a piss patch,” he said, “if you will excuse me.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but it’s my piss patch.” I dished up our eggs, took a deep breath. “What do you think I should do?”

  Yash poured our cups full of coffee. “I think that you should let the gardener garden,” he said.

  I looked at him for a moment, then dropped my shoulders and pulled up a stool. We ate in silence, sopping the yolk with our toast, until Yash rose to refill our cups. “It has been a long time since I have had a woman cook for me,” he said.

  “What about your wife?” I asked.

  He lowered his eyes, pressed the napkin to his mouth. “That has been many years ago.” I wanted to ask him more, but he gathered my plate, took it to the sink, and ran hot water.

  “I’ve got to write about the Beachcomber’s Ball,” I said, and rested my chin on my hands. “I’ve been to polka jamborees, but never to a ball.”

  “What is a polka jamboree?” he asked.

  “You know, polka,” I said. “It’s a dance.”

  He looked at me, pleasantly curious but with no recognition.

  “Accordion.” I bellowed my arms in and out.

  “Concertina,” he said.

  “And sometimes a tuba.” I blew out my cheeks. “That’s the polka,” I said. “See?” I stood, took a few short-stepping hops around the kitchen.

  Yash regarded me with stern amusement. “I beg that you do not do that at the ball.”

  I stopped, dropped my hands. “It’s the only dance I know.”

  He turned back to his chore. “Perhaps you will have pleasant conversation.”

  “Do you know how to waltz?” I asked.

  “I was forced to learn while attending school,” he said. “The British are exceedingly cruel that way.”

  “Will you teach me?”

  “Mrs. Ruthie will teach you,” he said. “I’m sure that her experience far exceeds my own.”

  “But I don’t have time,” I said. “The ball is tonight.”

  Yash raised his eyes. “And with whom will you be dancing?”

  I lifted my chin. “Whoever asks me.”

  “Then he will teach you.” Yash smiled evenly before returning to his cleaning, but now all I could hear in my head was the jumping beat of polka.

  “Let me show you.” I removed the sponge from his hand. “Hold out your arms.”

  He glanced at the blinded windows, sighed, then faced me as though presenting himself to a firing squad. I rested one hand on his arm and lifted the other. He brought his palm to meet mine, a good foot of space between us. I began singing nonsense words to the tune of a polka, pushing and pulling him into a two-four shuffle as we hopped out of the kitchen and through the dining room. He never looked down but stared straight over my head. By the time we had swung into the living room, he had taken the lead. We made another turn, knocked the tapestry from the wall, bounced the lamp shade cockeyed, circled the table, and came to a stop.

  “See?” I said. “It’s fun.”

  Yash rested his hands on his hips, trying to catch his breath. “It would not be mistaken for a waltz.” He smiled gamely and smoothed his hair. “Excuse me while I attend to the damage.”

  That evening, I took out Ruthie’s emerald gown, dabbed each of my ears with alcohol, then swept my hair into a twist, added lipstick and rouge. All I needed was Ruthie’s help deciding on shoes. When I heard Yash answer the doorbell, I padded barefoot to meet her. Instead of the lovely yellow sheath, Ruthie wore a straw hat, a sleeveless flowered top tied at her rib cage, and ragged capris. She took one look at me and burst out laughing.

  “It’s a theme party,” she said, “a Hawaiian beach bash. Don’t you read your own paper?”

  I looked at Yash, who looked at me and shrugged.

  “We don’t have much time,” she said. “Let’s see what we can come up with.”

  I followed her into my bedroom, where she shuffled through my closet. “Nothing,” she said. She considered me where I stood helpless and starting to sweat. “Yash,” she called loudly, “bring the scissors!”

  I watched as she went at the dress, trimming away the right sleeve altogether and slicing a diagonal line to the left. She cut the sleeve from that shoulder as well, leaving a thin strap, then went at the hem, angling it in a zigzag at midthigh. She held it against me. “The slip has to go. The bra too.” When I’d gotten them undone, she spun me around and dropped the dress over my head. The crisp material felt rough and alarming against my nipples.

  “Ruthie,” I said, “I can’t wear this. If I sit down, it will hike clear up to my Christmas.”

  “Your what?”

  I pointed down there. “That’s what my grandmother called it.”

  “I just cut a five-hundred-dollar dress into rags,” Ruthie said. “Don’t tell me you can’t wear it.” She pulled the pins from my hair, fluffed it free of its twist.

  “What about shoes?” I asked.

  “You’re shipwrecked. You don’t need shoes.” She pulled me down the hallway, where Yash stood too stunned to speak. Ruthie passed him the scissors. “Get us a flower, chop-chop.”

  Yash came back in with a fragrant white blossom that Ruthie tucked behind my ear. “Let’s go. Linda will have all the men.”

  I stuffed my notepad into my purse, then minced across the grass to her Volkswagen, the air cool against my bare legs as we drove through the dark to the recreation center.

  “I feel funny doing this without Mason,” I said.

  Ruthie huffed. “The husbands are always off somewhere,” she said. “In this place, you take what you can get when you can get it.” She parked and checked her makeup in the rearview. “You’ve got to love ambient lighting,” she said. “It covers up any number of flaws.”

  “I’m still embarrassed.” I got out and stood at the curb, the warm asphalt sticky beneath my feet.

  “Fine,” Ruthie said. “The keys are in the car if you want to go home.”

  The blare of a band echoed across the patio lit with tiki torches and paper lanterns. I hesitated near a hedge of frangipani before following Ruthie across the tough grass and through the entrance to the courtyard, where a group of Filipinos knocked out a brassy rendition of “Pearly Shells.” Couples looped their way around the marble patio, the men in bright shirts, the women in sarongs and hula skirts, leis stringing their necks.

  “See?” Ruthie said. “You don’t look any sillier than anyone else does.” She led me to a table near the bandstand, where Linda sat in a strapless floral dress, talking to a young man in his twenties with rust red hair, his skin a few shades lighter, as though he’d been caught in a rainstorm that bled the color down. He was dressed like a sailor, his white cap set at a rakish angle. He stood to greet us as we approached, but Ruthie stepped right past him and took his chair. “Thanks, Pat,” she said. “This is Gin.”

  He pulled out the remaining chair for me, and I smelled Old Spice.

  “Thank you,” I said, and tucked what I could of my insufficient skirt around my legs.

  “Grab us a drink, will you?” Linda pointed Pat toward the refreshment stand, where a young Arab man ladled the punch. She leaned in. “Reminds me of a nasty dog sniffing around,” she said. “Just ignore him. He’ll go away.”


  Ruthie looked over the dancers. “Get a load of that outfit Candy is wearing.”

  I turned carefully so as not to expose more skin than was already showing, saw Candy doing the twist in a coconut-shell bra and a short skirt made of palm fronds that lifted to reveal a pair of scarlet panties. Burt Cane was doing his best to match her moves, the look on his face more pain than pleasure.

  “Burt must have left Maddy at home,” Linda said. “Can’t say that I blame him.”

  I thought about pulling out my notepad, but I couldn’t imagine what I might describe that would make it past the censors. Pat returned and set our drinks on the table.

  “How about that dance, Gin?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, “I don’t really dance.”

  “Of course you do.” Ruthie waved to the bandstand. “Get out there and hula.”

  The musician on the ukulele had picked up the pace and swung into “Surfin’ USA.” Pat held out his hand, and I let him lead me to the dance floor, where we joined the crowd doing the watusi, the monkey, the mash. Pat started jumping from one toe to the other like he was riding a stick pony, and I shuffled my bare feet across the cool marble, arms pinned to my sides. When the song slowed and shifted into “My Girl” by the Temptations, I made a quick turn for the table, but Pat caught my hand, wrapped one arm around my waist, pulled me against him, and began swaying in a slow circle. I felt my breasts flatten against his chest, his fingers working the curve of my spine.

  “Nice dress,” he said. His breath smelled like overripe cherries.

  I took the opportunity to step back, put some air between us. “Your costume is good too,” I said.

  “This is my uniform,” he said. “Just ended my tour and re-upped. Thirty-day vacation, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Visiting family for a few days, then it’s back to the Mekong Delta.” He tucked his chin near my ear. “You sure do smell good.”

  I pushed away. “Listen,” I said. “I’m just here to take notes.”

  Pat ran his gaze from my ankles to my eyes. “You can take all the notes you want.”

  I turned quickly, bumping past several couples as I maneuvered back to our table. When I saw that Pat was following me, I kept going until I’d reached the women’s room. I stood in front of the mirror, unable to recognize myself, my hair in waves, the flower at my ear, my shoulders bare. When the door clacked open, I turned on the water, levered some soap, saw Candy Fullerton come in behind me.