Call of the Trumpet (37 page)

And why not? She was no mere, lowly woman, shackled by the constraints of Badawin law, as she had once feared she would be. Nor was she a lonely outcast among the people of her father’s country. She was Al Dhiba. She had faced the she-wolf, survived the desert. She rode at El Faris’s side. Cecile smiled behind the kerchief and wondered if Aza, too, looked on.

Once outside the camp, they followed the road along the edge of the bluff, the sea to their left, peach orchards and palm groves to the right. Occasionally they galloped past a laden camel or donkey; low, rambling houses where children played; and once, beneath them on the shore, a small fishing village. Otherwise, they saw no one. Filled with the lighthearted joy of the run, longing to breathe the salt-sea air, Cecile pulled the
khaffiya
aside and let the wind blow full in her face.

Matthew watched, admiring, as always, how lightly she sat her horse … and how strikingly beautiful her face was, unveiled. Thank Allah for the European blood that also ran in her veins, freeing her from the role imposed on other Badawin women. This was the kind of mate a man should have. One who was able to ride at his side, not kneel at his feet.

A wave of guilt immediately washed over him, and Matthew winced. Poor Aza, innocent Aza. He had done her a terrible injustice, one he would never be able to rectify. He had not married her out of love, but out of hurt and anger. And he had ruined her life, for he would never love her. There was only one, and there would never be another. He was nevertheless responsible for Aza’s life, and he would make sure she lived it with honor and such luxuries as his wealth could afford. She would always be safe, secure, and well cared for, with the dignity of his name. It was the very least he could do.

They rode for over an hour, their pace a rocking, rhythmic lope. Matthew saw little, though he explained much. He could hardly tear his eyes from Cecile.

She did not notice, enchanted as she was by the landscape. When a charming, half-moon bay appeared, a sandy beach coming into sight below the bluff, she reined her mare to a halt and pointed. “Oh, Matthew, look. Look at all the boats. What are they doing?”

Matthew looked and saw the smooth brown bodies slicing cleanly into the water from their tiny boats. “They’re pearl divers. There must be an oyster bed down there. Some of the finest pearls in the world come from this coast.”

“How fascinating. I love this place.” She sighed. “The desert. This paradise along the sea. I just wish …” Cecile cut herself off sharply and looked away.

“You only wish … what?” Matthew prompted.

But Cecile shook her head. How could she have come so close to slipping? She had very nearly blurted out her wish for Aza to be gone … not merely from their tent, but from their lives.

Or was it such a bad thing to let him know?

Blushing, Cecile looked up at Matthew from beneath lowered lashes. Would he understand? Would he divorce the gentle Aza for love of her if she asked? Did he love her that much?

Perhaps. And when the time was right, when she felt totally secure in his life, in his love, when she was convinced he held not a shred of affection for the girl, other than friendship, she would ask.

For now, however, she adroitly changed the subject. “I was just thinking,” Cecile answered at last, “just thinking how much I’d like to … to see some of the pearls.”

“Why? Do you like them?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied honestly. “They’re so … so vital, so warm and alive.”

Like you, Matthew added silently. Reluctantly, he noted the level of the sun. “I’m afraid it’s time to turn back,” he said at last, but he mentally marked their spot. Where there were divers there were men who worked in gold. He knew just what he wanted. “Are you ready?”

Cecile nodded, wheeled her mare, and fell in beside him. The golden day was almost at an end, yet she did not regret it. For the first time in a long time, she found she looked forward to the morrow.

The day was still, steamy with the heat of early September. Palm trees hung limply, and even the waves rolled lazily into shore. Cecile heard them from inside the tent and wished she might run barefoot to the beach and wade in the cooling water. She wished she could go anywhere, do anything, in fact, rather than remain where she was. She cast a sideways glance at Aza.

The girl seemed oblivious to the heat and worked steadily on the cakes she prepared for the feast. Though she could not see it beneath the veil, Cecile imagined her smiling, happy as usual. With a twinge of guilt she looked away.

“Here, Dhiba,” Aza said in her quiet voice. “Use this to mash the dates. It will be easier for you.”

“Thank you.” Cecile accepted the wooden implement, glancing only briefly into Aza’s eyes. How could she always be so gracious? Cecile squirmed, then returned to her dates with a vengeance. The mere thought of Matthew lying with the girl nearly drove her insane. Yet Aza did not seem to mind the reverse situation. Night after night she silently endured, alone in the little tent where she slept, as her husband lay with another woman. How did she do it?

Well, she would not have to endure it much longer. Cecile’s determination to ask Matthew to divorce Aza was reinforced, and not merely because of her own need to have Matthew all to herself. There was Aza, too, to consider. The kind and lovely girl was young yet; she had her whole life in front of her. She deserved a man who adored her, who would give her children. Yes, Cecile decided. It would be best for all of them.

The afternoon waned. The light softened, and the sea sparkled. Aza gathered the cooking pots, then sat back on her heels. “The women will be going to the canyon to bathe now,” she said. “Why don’t you go with them? I will scrub the pots.”

“Oh, no, I’ll help you.”

Aza shook her head. “There’s little to do. Please, go ahead.”

Cecile hesitated, Aza’s unselfishness making her feel guiltier than ever. She glanced at the clothes she had laid out, the new
towb
and embroidered jacket, the coral necklace; then at Aza’s small, neat pile. Not so much as a copper bracelet. Cecile turned and impulsively dug through her
qash.
“Here,” she said, retrieving the bracelets from the bottom of the box. “I … it would please me if you’d like to wear these tonight.”

Aza’s eyes glittered with tears. “Oh, oh, no, Al Dhiba. I couldn’t. I …”

“Please. I insist.”

Aza reached slowly for the proffered bracelets, head humbly lowered. “You are so very kind,” she murmured. “Too kind. I thank you with all my heart.”

It was more than Cecile could bear. Grabbing her clothes, she rushed from the tent.

A sultry, salty breeze sprang up by evening. The palms rustled, and a myriad of exotic fragrances floated on the air. Fires crackled, and the sound of laughing voices rose and fell.

Cecile wandered slowly among the different groups, pausing now and then for a greeting, but declined to stop for long. She felt melancholy rather than festive. So many of these people would leave tomorrow, people she had grown to know and love. Would she see them again? Would they return to the coast in the spring, or continue straight on across the desert back toward Damascus? What of Kut and her young son? Hagar and Jali … ?

Cecile plucked a crimson, trumpet-shaped flower and tucked it into the
makruna.
The petals were velvet against her cheek.

“So there you are!” Hagar appeared as if from nowhere and grabbed Cecile’s hand. “Come, you silly girl, and join the feasting.”

Cecile tried to pull away, but the old woman’s grip was firm. “Hagar,” she protested. “Please, I’d rather not. I … I don’t want to say good-bye. Especially to you.”

There was a catch in her voice. Hagar ignored it, as well as the protestation. “Nonsense. We all must say good-bye sometime. Do not worry about it for now. Come.”

There was nothing for it. Cecile followed, forcing a smile as they joined a group of giggling women.

The evening progressed much like the night at the oasis when they had celebrated a neighbor’s wedding. Cecile found herself smiling genuinely from time to time, caught up at last in the festivities.

Appetites sated, the dancing began. It started slowly, the younger girls stepping and turning gracefully to the rhythmic clap of hands and chant of voices. Beyond the fires the men watched. Hearts beat faster, and the tempo increased.

Cecile’s body throbbed in response. She moistened her lips and clasped her hands in her lap while her eyes searched the darkness for Matthew. But she did not see him. In fact, she had not seen him all afternoon. Where had he gone? Why was he not here tonight, of all nights?

Shouts and random clapping distracted her, and Cecile realized the dance had ended. The laughing, perspiring girls sank to their knees by the fire, and the jokes and raucous stories began. Cecile wondered if now was the time to make good her escape.

But Hagar was suddenly talking. The other women had fallen silent, giving her their full attention, and Cecile did likewise. She had no choice, for the old woman’s gaze had pinned her.

“So I must make my good-byes tonight,” Hagar continued. “Not to those who stay, however, but to those who return to the desert.” Cecile’s eyes widened. She stared, openmouthed, but the old woman had turned her gaze away. “I am old,” she went on, chuckling. “Too old, perhaps, to spend another winter in the desert. But not too old to warm an old man’s blanket!”

Pandemonium reigned. The women crowded about Hagar, laughing and congratulating. Hagar looked over their heads, fixed Cecile once more with her hard, dark eyes, and said loudly, “Yes, I will marry Jali. And together we go to Oman. To serve El Faris … and Al Dhiba!”

The moon had begun its descent. It must be past midnight, Cecile thought, though the festivities continued. She strolled among the revelers, searching once again for Matthew.

Earlier she had glimpsed him talking with a group of men, but he had not seen her. She had been glad merely to know he was present. Now, however, she needed him.

Hagar and Jali. Her heart welled with happiness for them. And for the fact that she would not be losing Hagar. She recalled the old woman’s words. The message in them had been clear. “El Faris … and Al Dhiba.” She had sounded so confident, so sure. Cecile was actually beginning to believe it herself. It was right. They were meant for each other.
Only
each other. Her resolve strengthened.