In the Kingdom of Men (36 page)

I drove the few blocks in the Volkswagen, hoping that, like washing a car to bring on rain, my leaving the house would draw Mason home. The suntan lotion in the jockey box, the residual sweetness of Ruthie’s perfume brought her back to me, and I tightened my grip on the wheel. At the pool, I slid into the lukewarm water, miming what I remembered of Nadia’s grace as the moon broke free of the flares and plied its light alongside me. If I narrowed my vision, I could almost believe I was outside of the compound, swimming in the sea beneath the desert stars—easier to believe than my memory of the theater, Lucky hovering over me like a barbarous saint. I took a deep breath, ducked under water, and stayed there as long as I could until the only thought in my head was breaking the surface, breathing again.

When I arrived back home, the porch light seemed too bright, and I squinted against its glare. I didn’t have to go in to know that Mason wasn’t there. I sat for a long time with the windows rolled down, taking in the night air, the crickets, the strange bark of an eagle owl hunting the grass, until I knew that Yash would be worried. He met me in the hallway, his face etched with a kind of intense concern I hadn’t seen before. He urged me inside, locked
the door, and motioned me into the kitchen as though someone might hear.

“What?” I insisted, my voice sharp with alarm.

“While you were gone,” he said, “two militiamen came to the door, asking for Mr. Mason.” He turned on the burner, ran water for tea, and I saw the sweat beading his upper lip.

“Did you tell them that he’s on his way home?” I asked.

“They say he was not on the launch,” Yash said.

“Then he’s still on the platform,” I said, but Yash shook his head.

“Then where is he?” I asked.

Yash set the tea to steep. “They say he is nowhere.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Everyone has got to be somewhere.” The simplest of answers to a child’s riddle.

“We will take some tea,” Yash said.

“I don’t want tea,” I said, and rapped the counter so hard that Yash jumped. “I want to know where Mason is.”

He took a patient breath. “I hope that I may teach you two things while living in this place,” he said gently. “The first will be to maintain your manners even in the face of crisis. The second will be to hold your tea.”

He placed a cup and saucer in front of me, but I sat unmoving, trying to remember everything that Lucky had said. It wasn’t just panic or fear that I felt but the sensation of my mind floating away, as though my head had come unhinged, separated itself from my body.

“Something has happened,” I said.

“Perhaps he has only gone to Bahrain,” Yash said, “taken an impromptu holiday.”

“He wouldn’t do that without telling me.”
Not Mason McPhee
.

Yash didn’t respond but positioned my plate of food, warm from the oven. I watched him roll up his shirt cuffs, run hot water over the dishes.

“What if he doesn’t come home?” I asked.

“If not today, then tomorrow,” Yash said. The thought of his leaving, of facing the coming hours alone, brought with it a wave of panic.

“We have the extra room,” I said. “Maybe you could just stay.”

Yash hesitated for a long moment, then dipped his head. “Of course, Mrs. Gin.”

I ate what I could for him, then stood with my plate, and we washed the dishes together before going to our separate rooms, offering our soft good nights, and closing our doors quietly against the other, the air a tender bruise between us.

If these were your two choices—to be paralyzed by fear and helplessness or to rise up, lash out—which would you choose? Always I had been willing to take my chances, survive whatever consequence came my way, and this time was no different.

That willful girl I had always been came back into me as I lay through the night, trying to make sense of what was happening. If Mason had been delayed by mechanical breakdown or bad weather, the company would know where he was and wouldn’t have sent the militia to our door. No part of me was willing to consider that he had simply taken some kind of joyride to Bahrain. It was Lucky’s words that rang like a threat—
that boy never listen
. By the time the sun broke the horizon, I believed I couldn’t wait any longer. Someone knew where Mason was, and I was going to find out who.

I rose before Yash, made scrambled eggs and bacon. He came into the kitchen, smoothing his hair, his shirt and trousers rumpled, as though he had slept in his clothes. He sat at the counter,
and I took the seat next to him, piled our plates with food. I tore my toast in half, dunked it in my egg.

“You eat like a boy,” Yash said. “I fear what you are about.”

“I have a plan,” I said.

“A plan? You are acting out of character,” he said, but his droll humor came tinged with regret.

“Mason is out there somewhere,” I said, “and I’m going to find out where.”

“I fear that I have encouraged you in this,” he said. “You should let me glean what I can from the other houseboys.”

“And what are you going to tell them?” I asked. “That your
sahib
didn’t come home? That his wife is worried?” He dropped his gaze, and I saw what he was thinking: I had no idea the trouble I might get into. “I’m not afraid of Alireza,” I said.

“It is not only Alireza,” Yash said, and I saw his lips tense. “I’m sure that you are being watched even now.”

“Who is watching me?” I asked. “Do you mean Abdullah?”

“Perhaps,” Yash said. “All I know is that if an intelligent and ambitious young man such as your husband were fomenting an agenda of solidarity among the Arab workers, it is difficult to imagine what measures the company might take to stop him. Mr. Mason’s efforts to uncover Alireza may provide his enemies the opportunity they need.” He brought his eyes to mine. “The company knows he is missing. If he has gone into hiding, they may hope that you will lead them to him. Why else hasn’t Mr. Fullerton or some chaplain come to your door?”

I sat quiet, trying to comprehend what he was telling me, who I could trust. “What am I going to do?” I asked.

Yash rotated his coffee cup like he was positioning a dial. “I can hardly believe I am going to suggest this,” he said, and raised his eyes. “Petition the pirate.”

“Carlo Leoni?”

“Do you know of another pirate?”

“But I thought you despised him.”

“The fact remains that he has the run of the kingdom.”

“I can ask Linda,” I said. “Maybe she has heard something.”

“There is a sense of desperation in the air,” he said. “It may be more dangerous than we know.” He held my eyes for a moment, then lowered his gaze. “Perhaps there is time for one more story.”

I wanted to say no, that I didn’t have time, that I had grown impatient with stories except the one that lay in front of me, but Yash’s solemn face kept me silent.

“The friend of my own youth was Amar,” he said. “We drank together, gambled together, visited certain women together.” He blinked, suddenly shy. “Those were our salad days.” He hesitated. “Shall we smoke?” He lit our cigarettes, then grew quiet, touched his thumb to the ashtray. “We were in the army,” he said, “and were sent to the northern border. There were fifty in our troop, marching toward our ordered position. At forty-nine hundred meters, the Himalayan cold is inescapable. Many of us were suffering altitude sickness.” He inhaled slowly, as though remembering the struggle to breathe, and I saw something shift in him, his shoulders take on weight.

“The Chinese had emplaced one thousand soldiers on the highest ridges.” He looked at me as though to explain, said, “The elevation favors defense.” I nodded, urging him on. “When they attacked with mortar fire,” he continued, “we entrenched, believing we were safe for a time, but when I looked at Amar, I saw him huddled in the mud, blood running from his ears, the result of oxygen deprivation.” Yash paused, remembering. “The battle was hopeless, and we began to retreat. The Chinese honorably held their fire, but Amar would not rise, sure that they would murder us as we fled. When I tried to pull him up, he pointed his rifle at me.” Yash dropped his eyes. “I believed he was delirious. I brought my own rifle to bear and ordered him to march, but I was bluffing, of course. I would not kill my dearest friend.” I thought his story had
ended, but he gathered his breath, lifted his cigarette. “When the shot rang out, I thought I had been hit by enemy fire, but it wasn’t my blood. Amar had placed the muzzle beneath his chin. His face was gone, but he was still alive.” Yash closed and opened his eyes. “And then, of course, I had no choice but to kill him.”

I held still for a long moment, wondering why Yash was telling me this, why now. “There was nothing you could have done,” I said.

“Still.” Yash touched two fingers to the crystal ashtray. “I wonder whose commander I thought I was.” He brought his eyes to mine. “Fate and folly sometimes meet. How will you know the difference?”

“Maybe I won’t,” I said, and then more quietly, “Are you afraid that you’ll get in trouble for helping me?”

The look on his face eased into an enduring smile. “They say it is better to die in the company of friends than to live in the company of enemies.” He lifted his cup. “We are comrades, you and I,” he said. “Let us be brave.
A la sature!
”

I reached for my own cup and met his toast.
“A la sature!”
I echoed, and drank the last of my coffee, felt the weight of the moment return. “Yash?” I asked. “What will all this come to?”

His smile never faltered. “The education of Mrs. Gin,” he said, and then he grew more solemn. “Please be careful,” he said, and lowered his eyes. “If something were to happen to you, I would never forgive myself.” When I stood to go, he rose with me, reached into his pocket, and held out his hand, dropped a fistful of riyals into my palm. “It is all I have,” he said. “I wish it were more.”

I closed my fingers around the coins. “I’ll be home before dark,” I promised, then surprised us both by giving him a quick hug. He held to me for a moment, then straightened, cleared his throat. “Perhaps my mother’s masala lamb for dinner,” he said, then sat back down and pretended concentration on stirring his tea.

I gathered my scarf, packed my bag with my camera, a canteen of water, a pack of cigarettes, my notepad, my pen, Yash’s
riyals—I believed that I was prepared for anything. I stepped out into the heat, battling the impulse to jump in the Volkswagen and gun it right through the gate, like Ruthie had said. I looked back to see Yash standing in the doorway. He raised his hand, and I waved back, but he didn’t move, and I could see him there, peering after me, until I turned the corner and was out of sight.

At the bus stop, I ignored the few wives who looked my way, their faces full of pity over the news of Ruthie’s death. I had no idea whether they had knowledge of Mason’s absence at all. Wasn’t every wife’s husband gone?

I considered my few options. The bus didn’t go to Carlo’s shack on the beach, and even if it did, the driver would never drop me there alone. I looked to the taxi stand, where Yousef regarded me from beneath the brim of his hat, and wondered whether he would risk my passage.

I stepped over quickly, handed him a cigarette and a few riyals. “Carlo Leoni,” I said under my voice.

Yousef looked at the cigarette, then tucked it behind his ear. “Dhahran,” he said loudly, and I looked around, saw the wives openly staring.

“Dhahran,” I said, following his lead, and he opened my door.

The taxi smelled like stale smoke and a perfume I could almost name. Even through my pants, the seat branded my legs, and I hiked up my knees. Yousef steered us toward the gate, where he stopped and exchanged easy words with Habib. I closed my eyes, wrapped my arms around my bag, and drew it close until we were out on the road, then let my shoulders relax and lifted my face to the hot wind. When Yousef peered into the rearview, I pulled out another cigarette for good measure and handed it to him over his shoulder.

“Ashkurik,”
he said. His gaze came up to meet my eyes, and he grinned. “No one loves tobacco more than a Bedouin.”

I blinked, trying to hide my surprise. “You speak English,” I said.

“Little bit,” he said, and snugged the cigarette behind his other ear.

I settled back against the seat and wondered at all that Yousef might have heard as he ferried the men, wives, and single girls back and forth across the desert. I looked out at the cars speeding by, the jalopies, donkeys, and camels crowding the shoulder.

“Do you know where my husband is?” I asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“Abdullah?” I said.

“My cousin,” Yousef said.

“Will you take me to him?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Do you mean you don’t know where he is?”

“I don’t know.”

I slumped back, looked out at the road stretching before me. Even if I found Carlo, located Abdullah, where did I think that might lead me? Even al-Khobar seemed impossible, distant as the moon. If Mason was hiding, he could be anywhere, nowhere I could go. I felt the panic edge back in, and what good was that? “You only think you know what you’re doing,” my grandfather often said to me, and maybe he was right. It wasn’t that I felt brave or righteous in my quest—it felt like the only choice I could make, the only action I could take. I wasn’t afraid for myself, maybe because I believed that the worst that could happen would be that I would be deported, flown out. The one thing I knew for certain was that I would never leave without knowing where Mason was, without at least trying to find him, without discovering the answers to my questions. I remembered Lucky in the theater and wished that I had clung to him until he told me everything that he knew—the not-knowing, for me, was worse than death.

When Yousef reached the familiar turnoff, he stopped, got out, and let air from the tires, then steered us onto the packed sand, and we wove our long way to the shore, stopping just outside Carlo’s door.

“Will you wait?” I asked, and when Yousef nodded, I offered him another cigarette, but he held up his hand, pointed to the two behind his ears.