In the Kingdom of Men (25 page)

I rolled to my back and listened, trying to make out what I was hearing. When the door to the bedroom swung open, I jerked up the covers, thinking for a ridiculous moment that it was Yash, but then I saw Mason. Instead of the company-regulation khaki
pants and button-down, he wore jeans and a white T-shirt, cigarettes rolled in the sleeve, like he was that farm boy again.

He flicked his lighter, sly-eyed me through the smoke of his cigarette. “We seem to have us a regular rodeo outside,” he said. “Abdullah says someone put in a request for a ride.” And then I recognized the nickering and chuffing of horses.

I didn’t even bother to shower, just rifled the drawers, pulled on a pair of Mason’s jeans and then my mother’s boots, arching my toes against their familiar crease and bend. I tied my hair in a blue scarf that I thought might match the sky, added film to my camera, and stepped out into the heat. Abdullah, dressed in the belted robe of a Bedouin, stood at the head of three glistening horses, their long tails swishing, Faris hovering close by, ready with a shovel to move their manure to the garden. Abdullah loosened the lead of the gray mare, brought her to me.

“Badra,” he said quietly, his voice tender. “She will carry you well.”

I held out my palm, let her snuffle and lick, then touched the silver velvet of her muzzle. When Abdullah nodded, I grabbed a hank of mane and swung myself up onto the thin cushion of leather that served as a saddle and adjusted my sitting bones to fit her back, which was narrower than Sonny’s had been, just right. Instead of reins, Abdullah handed me a single rope connected to the left of the bangled headstall so that the horse gave to that side like a goat kid trained to a post. A young black mare whose hide rippled in the heat stomped and settled as Mason pulled himself up. I saw Abdullah watching the mare’s ears flick back and knew he was judging her mood just as she was judging Mason’s.

Abdullah took the basket lunch Yash proffered, set it on the grass, and pulled it apart. When he held up a checked tablecloth and cast it aside, Yash crossed his arms.

“You will have sand in every bite,” he pronounced. Abdullah
paid him no mind but stored our lunch in a rough satchel that he slipped over his head and shoulder, adding only a single canteen.

“We’ll need more water than that,” Mason said.

“We will find water.” Abdullah mounted his own muscular bay and moved her forward, Badra following, Mason bringing up the rear. We clipped down the asphalt, children coming from their yards to watch, cars pulling to the side, until we reached the gate, where Habib exchanged a few jolly words with Abdullah, reached up to shake each of our hands, and waved us through.

I rode easy on the gray, rocking my hips to her smooth gait, the twist of tension at the base of my spine unwinding. When Abdullah led us off the road and pointed us south, into the heart of the desert, Mason, too, seemed to relax and began humming “Home on the Range” as the mares found their footing, their shoes solid-plated for protection against the rubbled rock. The heat that in a car felt like an affliction came tempered by a constant breeze. I lifted my camera and saw what Carlo must, the boundaries of the world falling away. A small jerboa hopped in front of us, and I caught it in midleap, a mouse except for the cartoonishly long ears, legs, and tail. Each time I shuttered, Badra’s ears clicked back then forward, but she never hesitated, steady in her march.

We rode until the sun scorched our shoulders. By the time Abdullah directed us to a narrow island of tamarisk, my rump was aching. We wove our way through the trees on a barren path that led to an open flat mounded like the mouth of a volcano—an ancient well ringed by centuries of stone and camel dung.

“Sure this well is yours?” Mason asked. “I don’t want anyone taking shots at us.”

Abdullah responded to Mason’s ribbing with a sideways grin. “It has belonged to my tribe for as long as man has thirsted.”

“Adam’s ale,” Mason said. “I could use some of that.”

Abdullah dismounted, and I looked around for a place to tie Badra.

“Bring her here,” Abdullah said. “We will have our water.”
He uncovered a large skin bucket and rope, looped the end around Badra’s neck, and dropped it down the black shaft. He urged the horse forward until the bucket reappeared, then motioned us to drink.

Mason spat and wiped his mouth. “Too briny for me,” he said, then moved away. I could tell by his bowlegged stance that he was galled and would be raw by the time we got home.

I cupped my hands, dipped them into the water. “It tastes like the sea,” I said, and Abdullah smiled his approval.

I stowed my camera and laid out our lunch while the men reclined in the thin shade, the ground-tied horses dozing close by. I tore the chapati and offered the dal, which Abdullah accepted graciously. I finished a sweet slice of melon, wiped my hands down my jeans, and surveyed the hazy horizon. “I could live like this,” I said.

“Bet you’d miss running water,” Mason said, “miss our nice soft bed.”

Abdullah looked up quickly, as though the mention of the bed were a naughty detail.

“I survived without them before,” I said.

Mason stripped a straw of dry grass and worried it through his teeth, raised an eyebrow Abdullah’s way. “Women never appreciate what you do for them.”

“That’s not what I mean,” I said, then caught myself. I didn’t want to have some silly spat in front of Abdullah, who had taken the makings for coffee from his pouch, gathered brush and dung, and fanned a fire to life. When I raised my camera and asked permission, he lifted his face, and I took a few photos, then simply studied him through the lens because I could, as though I weren’t really looking even as he gazed back at me, his eyes unwavering, and I felt my heart pick up speed. When Mason cleared his throat, I didn’t look around but stowed the camera, then moved to kneel beside Abdullah.

“Teach me how to do that, will you?” I asked.

I stayed close as he showed me how to roast and grind the fistful of beans, their fragrance like the taste of green cherries, then filled a small brass urn with water and set the coffee to boil, pinched a bit of cardamom. His bag was like a magician’s hat, from which he pulled three cups.

“It is tradition,” he said, “for the host to take the first swallow so that the guest”—he nodded at Mason—“won’t fear poison.” He sipped, waited a moment, then rolled his eyes and keeled over sideways.

I rocked back on my heels and laughed, then looked to Mason, who was watching us, his mouth a thin line.

Abdullah recovered and filled the other two cups. I sipped at mine, swabbing the bitter taste away with a bite of chapati. Mason knocked his back like it was a shot of whiskey, then rose. “Gotta see a man about a horse,” he said. Abdullah peered at him quizzically until Mason stepped behind a clump of bushes.

“How is your mother?” Now that Mason wasn’t there, I could ask. “Nadia and your niece?”

Abdullah moved his eyes to the coffee, poured us each another cup. “It is difficult to speak of our troubles,” he said.

I canted my head. “I’ve had some of my own.”

He nodded, grew pensive. “My sister is the youngest of four wives,” he said. “Her husband is a member of the Alireza family.”

“The merchant,” I said.

Abdullah worked his jaw, studied his cup. “He is my mother’s uncle’s cousin. Had my father known that such bitter fruit could grow from the same tree that had sweetened my mother, he would never have allowed the marriage. My sister has divorced him, but he refuses and is demanding her return. She won’t go.”

“She shouldn’t have to if he is mean to her,” I said, remembering the story of my grandmother, her sock of pennies.

“If she does not return,” Abdullah said, “Alireza will come for the child.”

My heart hit the cage of my chest, just the way it had when my grandfather had first come for me.

“He can’t do that,” I said.

Abdullah looked at me. “According to our law and custom, the child belongs to the father.”

I heard Mason come up behind us, saw Abdullah draw back and grow silent. I leaned in. “Bring Nadia and the baby to the compound,” I whispered. “They can stay with us.” I wanted to say more, but I stood, dusted my hands, and looked beyond the trees. “Is it okay if I ride Badra?” I asked. “Just around the edge?”

Abdullah glanced at Mason before nodding his head. “Be watchful of snakes,” he cautioned.

I raised my shoulders. “Can’t be any worse than copperheads,” I said.

“Just stay close,” Mason said, his voice low, “real close.”

I clucked as I approached Badra and held out the melon rind. She moved fluid as mercury, lipping the fruit from my fingers, the other mares gathering close, snuffling. When I swung up and onto her withers and directed her out of the trees, she pranced and shimmied, kicking up sand.

“I know, girl,” I said. I held her to a walk, thinking about Nadia. I had no idea what Arab law had to say about women divorcing their husbands, what rights Nadia might have, if any. I wanted to believe that Abdullah would take care of his sister, and I imagined him on his horse, sword drawn, ready to defend Nadia against the awful Alireza.

Badra threw her head, and I patted her shoulder to calm her, then checked to see that we were out of sight before gathering two handfuls of her mane. I lay low on her neck like I had seen the jockeys do and squeezed my knees tight around her barrel, felt the engine of her haunches bunch and release, the first rough leap forward, and then her body planing out like we were skimming the sea.

I squinted against the onrush of air, the wind pulling loose my scarf before I could catch it. Badra lengthened her stride as I whooped my joy into her ear. I’d set my sights on a distant acacia, alone in its stand against the sky—just far enough, the men would never know—but we reached the tree faster than I could have imagined. I sat back, tucked my bottom, gave the rope a gentle pull. “Whoa,” I said, then again, “Badra, whoa!”

But Badra didn’t whoa. We ramped right past the acacia, and now I was tugging hard. No real saddle, no bit to clamp down, and as I hauled back on the rope, I felt my balance tip, my center give way, and I rolled off in a backward somersault. I landed on my back, knocked the wind right out of myself, and sprawled flat. I lay still, sucking air, inventorying injury, then pushed myself to a sit and watched Badra disappear behind a low dune.

I brought up my knees, rested my elbows, dropped my head. It had been years since I’d been thrown from a horse, and that had been Sonny, who once startled sideways as I walked him up the county road, then broke into a bucking run that left me hanging by one boot until my foot pulled free. I’d hit hard, but I was just a girl, and I jumped up before I knew I might be hurt. It took me a minute to discover what had spooked Sonny: in the barrow pit, a broken-backed mutt, spun aside by a passing car, lay panting, its teeth drawn back in a rictus grin. I had caught Sonny and gone for my grandfather, thinking he might save the dog.
A mercy
, he had said as he raised the shovel. It was the sound of the bit through bone that never left me.

I emptied the sand from my boots, then rocked back, peered skyward, took a deep breath. I stood with a groan, began slogging back to where a pale twist of smoke wreathed the treetops. Some part of me wanted to follow Badra, take my chances in the Empty Quarter with the hyenas and snakes rather than face Mason’s anger, present Abdullah with the news that I had lost his beloved mare. By the time I reached the well, my neck and chest were damp
with sweat, my shirt wicking my skin. Whatever wind had caught my scarf had carried it far away, and my hair had whipped and knotted. The two remaining horses whinnied at my scent, and the men looked up from their coffee. Mason stood, his eyes wide, and took me by the elbows.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just bruised, is all.” I turned to Abdullah. “She bolted,” I said.

The concern on Abdullah’s face eased into amusement. “Badra does not bolt,” he said, and leaned back on one elbow, “but you owe me no apology. It is the emir’s prize mare you have lost.”

Mason let out a hard breath. “Great, Gin. That’s just great.”

“I’ll take one of the other horses,” I said, “go look for her.”

“The hell you will.” Mason planted his hands on his hips and looked at Abdullah. “What should we do?”

Abdullah lifted his cup. “We should drink our coffee,” he said. “Badra will come back to water. It is only a matter of time.” He nodded in the direction from which we had come. “I will lead you to Abqaiq and return for her. It is nothing.”

Mason sniffed and spat. “We’d better get going then.”

“Haste comes from the devil,” Abdullah said. “We will finish our coffee.” He shifted his gaze away from Mason’s quick look and began to chat pleasantly, naming the various landforms, telling us which tribe lived where, the invisible routes his people had traveled for centuries. I sat down a ways from Mason and watched Abdullah trace the flight of a kestrel with his hand, the small raptor flushing a tight flock of turtledoves that spilled away from us, wings clapping. He recalled for us the names of famous falcons he had witnessed at the hunt, how the sheikhs who owned them prized the birds above all else. I wanted to raise my camera, capture him resting so easy, his fingers inscribing the air, but I didn’t dare, not because of him but because of Mason, who sat with his back stiff, dark-browed and sullen.

“It’s so beautiful,” I said. “You must love it here.”

Abdullah offered a patient smile. “No Arab loves the desert,” he said. “We love water and green trees. There is nothing in the desert, and what man needs nothing?” He looked at Mason, then focused on the dying fire. “Now we see how wrong we were.”

“No wrong that can’t be made right,” Mason said. He straightened, and I sensed some shift, his face animate again. “You know as well as I do that the company has you over a barrel, and they’ll keep you there until you stand up, say you won’t take it anymore.” He took up a stick, poked at the embers. “You’re the owners of this plantation. One of these days, you’re going to wake up and realize that.”

Abdullah’s gaze sharpened at the tone in Mason’s voice. “We are not sleeping,” he said, then glanced my way before dipping his head, measuring his words. “When I returned to Arabia with my education,” he said, “I went into the field and offered my opinions. Mr. Fullerton acted as though what I said mattered, and he took note, but when I began to ask questions about certain operational inconsistencies and reporting, he refused to answer. Within a week, I was no longer an engineer but a driver for the Americans. He claimed that my translation skills were too valuable to waste.” He picked up a small rock, weighed its heft. “Whether they are Saudi or American doesn’t matter. The princes fatten at the banquet while we beg scraps at their feet.”