Gwennie's Girl Page 24

  Her orange cotton wrap was now in a pile on the sand. This man—was she kidding herself that she didn’t notice that he was gorgeous? Was she just another old darling being conned by a gorgeous young salesman? This man was buckling her into a harness. He had taken off her sunglasses, put them on himself and was rabbiting on about her beautiful eyes. A likely story, sonny. Stop carrying on and tell me what to do!

  What are you doing? You are running me across the sand to that deflated parachute. You are grabbing hooks and planning to connect me. No way! Just wait a bloody minute, Mate! What do I do? What do I do? What do I bloody do?

  Oh shit, I’m hooked. Literally, I’m hooked. What are you saying? Relax? You bloody fool—how can I relax when—Oh shit! I’m going! That boat is moving. I’m going. What do I bloody do? Pull down with my right hand? Now? All right, don’t yell. Not now. When you whistle? What do you mean? When you whistle? When I’m coming in? Did you say…Oh shit, I’m going out to sea. Over the sea. My legs are dangling uselessly. I bet that’s not a pretty sight. What do I do now?

  Well, apparently nothing. If you are going to fall and smash yourself senseless from this great height then so be it! There is absolutely nothing you can do about it now. You are up here, and this parachute seems to be OK, and that tiny little boat down there is bouncing around and having fun so… So stop bleating to no one in particular and enjoy yourself. You are flying. Under this wisp of wonderful colour you are flying. With no sound, no weight and no responsibility, you are flying. Bloody, bloody, this is bloody marvellous. If I look up, the world is shimmering, swishing silk. If I look down, I can see right through the sea. I love it. I love it. Hey, Mum, if you’re there, Gwennie, I’m flying. I’m flying. Hey, Nanna. Hey, doc, I’m flying. You said I’d be dead but I’m flying. Up you, doc. We’ve done a wonderful great sweep, and now we are going back to the shore. I don’t want to go down there again. I like it up here. But I can see that we are heading back in again, and that little bouncy boat is going to slow down, and I’ll just drift lazily back to earth.

  Lazily back to…Oh shit! What did he say about pulling down with my right hand? When he whistled? What if I can’t hear him? There are all those umbrellas, surfers and camels. Listen, Lizzie, listen. There he is, down there and getting closer by the second. The boat has turned, and you are going down. Excuse me, people, but going down rather too quickly? Listen. Listen. He’s whistling. Pull the rope, stupid, pull the bloody rope. He’s smiling. He has his arms open wide. He has you. You’re down. He has you.

  Excuse me, sir, but why do you still have your arms around me? I’m down. Thank you for telling me again that I have beautiful eyes but although it was wonderful, no, I don’t want to do it again. Now, don’t look hurt. Just help me out of this harness; I’ll thank you and be on my way. No thank you, sir, I don’t want to have dinner with you tonight. What would your mother say? Thank you for my glasses and my wrap but most of all, thank you, thank you for helping me to fly. Yes. I did love it. I truly did. Now I’m going to collapse in a little middle-aged heap on the sand and feel elated.

  Lunch was forgotten. She sat and dreamed again of the flight and she felt glad. The gladness continued with the golden day.

  That night, as she entered the dining room, the maître approached with a definite “big tip” smile. ‘The gentleman has asked that you join him at his table again.’

  Very nice of the gentleman. Yes, damn it, it was nice of the gentleman.

  She smiled as she walked out and greeted him. He stubbed his cigarette and thanked the maître who was helping her into her chair. The meal was wonderful again. It was delicately spiced meat in rich sauce, frothy rice and sweet ripe fruit to follow. He ordered a local wine which she accepted out of courtesy only to find it was delicious.

  ‘You do need to know which one to pick,’ he smiled.

  It was clear he had realised her apprehension. A bright lad, this one, Lizzie. You don’t seem to fool him too much.

  This time, the conversation focussed more on Lizzie. She was aware that he was drawing her out about herself—not about the facts of Lizzie—more about the sense and idea of Lizzie. She enjoyed really talking to someone again. It was good that she could enjoy this space and not have any ongoing obligation to get to know one another or make more than superficial stranger style judgements. She was safely flirting with a memory. As she finally rose to leave, he said, ‘Will you join me for a drink in the garden tomorrow? And then come dancing with me?’

  She was not in any doubt. ‘Perhaps,’ she said.

  He looked at her for a moment. ‘You mean “no”, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘That would have been a more honest response. I prefer it to waiting in uncertainty.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She could feel the tears of a long time ago. ‘I’m sorry I said “perhaps”. I’m sorry.’ She walked quickly along the moon-washed sibilant corridors, sat on the balcony and cried.

  Early next morning, she walked out into the dusty road, saw a tattered sign, entered a disorganised office and booked herself to go four-wheel driving south into the desert for three days. After another full day on the beach, she ordered room-service and ate on her balcony watching the night peak until as it slowly faded, she packed a small bag and padded down to the front steps of the hotel to wait for dawn and the pick-up vehicle.

  She sat with her knees drawn up, elbows on them and her chin on her hands. Eventually, she saw two white eyes approaching through the gloom and she blinked as they stopped in a small spray of the grit on the drive and a bulky male figure left the driver’s seat and greeted her in French. Having checked that she was his passenger, he tossed her pack up onto the roof, secured it with a rope and then looked down at her. She had a feeling he could have tossed her there too, and she scrambled hurriedly into the back seat before the thought fathered his deed. She “Bonjour-ed” all round and then was immediately lost in streams of what she knew was French but which was extremely difficult to follow. She came to know that it was Arabic French, Senegalese French and German French. Her still new Aussie French from Geneva just did not cope.

  At the first stop, she realised the guide spoke either Arabic or French. This was going to be great. She wouldn’t even get to know where to find the toilets! Their first stop was, in fact, a toilet stop. It seemed that already one of the passengers was going to need a few of these. They were travelling in a convoy of eight Land Rovers, each with its driver cum guide and seven passengers. Lizzie had left her sunglasses in the side pocket of her pack and decided that while everyone was milling around, she would climb up to the roof and get them. She edged the rope out of the way while balanced on a narrow metal loop protruding from the back. The rope was almost free when she realised her bulky guide was yelling at her. It was obvious he wanted to know what the hell she was doing and just as obvious that the quickest response would be to grab the sunglasses and show him.

  However, it seemed that Mr Bulky was not used to being ignored. She smiled and continued. He continued looking quite pissed off until she finished what she was doing, replaced the rope and jumped down waving the glasses. He towered over her and let it be known that he was not happy. She smiled and shrugged again. Another question. Another shrug. So, she was simple minded.

  Tough luck, Mr Bulky.

  But now he was smiling. He called to one of the other guides and spoke to him authoritatively. The younger man (Oh hell, another Omar Sharif, she groaned silently.) said, ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed in relief, ‘Please explain that I wasn’t being rude but I didn’t understand what this man was saying. I have a little French but not much.’

  A rapid conversation took place between the two men. The younger man said, ‘It is OK. El Shef says you will travel sometimes with him and sometimes with me. My name is Abdul. You are Mrs…?’

  ‘My name is Lizzie. That’s great. Thanks a lot.’

  El Shef seemed to be waiting for their excha
nge to finish. Abdul spoke to him. El Shef grinned and spoke again. This time, Abdul grinned, spread his hands and brought them together again with his eyes to heaven as if praying. Both men laughed. Now what was all that about? Lizzie wondered.

  El Shef spoke sharply, and they all climbed back into the vehicles. The land they drove through was flat and dry and more gritty than sandy, at first everything coated in fine grey. Lizzie was disappointed to see the dullness of scraggly trees and gnarled shrubs that clawed into the earth so that she imagined their roots gouging their way to moisture. But after an hour or more, this landscape faded and merged into the lightness of the desert that she had imagined. It was getting hotter. The other passengers grew more and more quiet. Lizzie was in the row behind the driver now, next to the window, and she was revelling in the heat and the silence as one after another the passengers dropped into a doze.

  She watched the world as it began to glimmer and all the edges blurred. In the rear view mirror, Abdul caught her eye and returned her smile. Without a word, his eyes took in the surrounds and asked her a question. She nodded. Yes, she loved it, all that emptiness and sheen.

  They stopped for lunch at a small wayside shelter that offered shade, rough benches and tables and warm, thick flat bread, rice and the rich stews she had come to expect. There was also sweet juicy watermelon which she ate and felt the juice dripping down her chin as she bent over to avoid getting it on her clothes. She found she was laughing for sheer joy at the memories as she slurped and gobbled like a kid at a picnic. This was pretty good.

  Around her, people were getting to know each other. There were a few family groups but most people were travelling in twos. There was one group of young Germans who showed no signs of wanting to know anyone else, but most people were chatting to others. She seemed to be the only solo and privately blessed her limited understanding of language. At least this way she could get away with minimal social chitchat and would not feel bound to talk to lots of people.

  El Shef sat with her during the meal and plied her with food. She guessed he felt some responsibility for making sure she was not feeling neglected. At the end of the meal, he excused himself with a smile and called to the other guides who joined him around the lead vehicle. Mr Bulky (now El Shef) might run a tight ship, but it seemed that he also had some humour because there was a general ripple of laughter for something he said. Abdul looked back at her and waved. That was nice, Lizzie thought.

  She sat for a while longer enjoying the heaviness of the heat on her skin. She could feel it all around her. When she moved her hand, it was as if she parted the air and it closed again after the passing. She loved being warm, loved it. Even though she enjoyed winter in Geneva with the ice and the snow of the nearby mountains, she loved it because she was always warm in the coldness. Warm in her woollen coat. Warm in shops, chalets or buses. Warm from skiing, skating or walking. She loved being warm. Hated the mourning of being cold. Mum had been like that too. Remember thinking of Mum and the grave? Remember knowing Gwennie would hate being cold in the earth? For heaven’s sake, Lizzie, remember something else! Remember the romance that was Gwennie. As Mum, she may never have left Australia but in her heart she’d had romantic adventures all over the world. She had come as near as anyone could to making dying an interesting episode. Remember the romance of Gwennie because that was Gwennie’s reality. Gwennie would be totally pissed off to think that her girl wasted time with regrets.

  Most people were heading back to the cars. Lizzie stretched, and the warmth played around her. She headed back to her seat and smiled to Abdul as he was herding his group aboard. But there was another passenger in the spot where she had been—a rather disgruntled passenger. Abdul said, ‘You will take the front seat, Miss Lizzie.’

  ‘But…’ she looked at the other passengers.

  ‘You will take the front seat, Miss Lizzie. El Shef has decided.’

  There seemed no point in prolonging the discussion and, if she were honest, she would like to travel in the front. After all, she was the only one who stayed awake. Why not? Good on yer, El Shef. He probably thought that would keep her happy, and it would be easier for Abdul to switch from French or German to English for her.

  All afternoon they travelled through stark barren landscapes. The light drifted with them in the shimmering coppery gold. Nothing soft about this land. They were not yet into “Lawrence of Arabia” country. This was harsh in its dryness, gleaming metallic in its colour. Once or twice, they passed what looked like military outposts and she could sense why men would fight and war in such landscapes. Bullshit, Lizzie, men fight and war in any landscape, in any suburb. True.

  Abdul was talking to her. They would spend the night in underground caves. Because there was no shelter to be found above ground, some of the desert people dug out homes below it. They created whole complexes of dwellings and communities. Lizzie wondered if this were true or just a yarn for the tourists. Abdul must have seen her scepticism because he grinned (it is not fair that men can be so beautiful) and assured her it was true and that she would be comfortable.

  They drove for a long time. The heat began to pale slightly and the light shifted subtly as a diluted coolness crept into it. Passengers began to stir. The road, which was little more than a track, began to rise and fall as they moved away from the “it-must-be-the-end-of-the-world” flatness. Eventually, after a short climb, the convoy pulled up. Everyone crawled out of the cars, stretching and yawning and straggling after the guides to the top of a rise on one side of the road to come upon a lunarscape. This was a valley of starkness. The sandy land was lifeless with shadows lurking around rocks and gaping holes.

  Abdul said, ‘Do you recognise it?’

  ‘Recognise it? I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘I bet you have,’ he grinned.

  He mentioned a film. Yes, she had seen that film. Did she remember the opening sequences of a family living on a desert planet? Yes. She remembered that sequence. (Funny; today’s kids saw desert planets rather than desert islands). It was filmed here? Yes. Did they change it or “create it”? No, they just filmed here.

  ‘So Hollywood tells us that we are not of this world. We are like creatures from outer space? This is how the Americans see us, Arabs.’

  An interesting political statement, my friend, Abdul. And not unconscious either.

  They drove off for about half an hour until again the convoy stopped and passengers alighted and climbed another rise. Now they were looking down at a valley that was green with grass and trees such as they had not seen all day. Some movement caught Lizzie’s eye and almost simultaneously, she heard bleating and saw a goat-like scraggle that never quite becomes a flock or herd. This was such a place of peace that Lizzie couldn’t imagine them needing protection within it as only a bloody stupid goat would leave this lushness for the desert all around it.

  She noticed a child sitting perched on a rock that probably gave him a good overview of what were obviously his charges. He sat still and seemed unaware of the small crowd peering over the rim of his world until suddenly, he sprang took a flying leap down from his perch and started running. Lizzie was almost shocked by the suddenness. She saw he was following a faint path and saw that on the other end of the path, a man was swinging down into the valley. She saw the child reach him and saw the man catch the child as he ran and swing him high before a quick hug and the child had attached himself to the man’s hip.

  Abdul was beside Lizzie. He too had watched the little scene. ‘Families are families,’ he said. Lizzie understood the point he was making but part of her wanted to cry out, ‘That’s what you think!’ Part of her wanted to scream, ‘That’s bullshit. That’s Hollywood. Don’t idealise the world. Families are not all about loving. Families are not all about happy children and caring parents who stay with them forever. I remember!’ But she didn’t cry out at Abdul. She didn’t swear or scream. Time was—but not now.

  As they walked down the hill, Abdul said, ‘We shall be
soon at the caves. El Shef suggests you wait until last when rooms are being allocated. It will be better so. The Germans will be first and then the French. But before then, you will see the home of one family.’

  They really were caves. There was a central open sort of courtyard about twelve or fifteen feet below ground level. Several rooms went off from the courtyard. The rooms were packed with a surprising amount of furniture and she guessed this was either the cause or the effect of being chosen for visitors to see. She had an uncomfortable feeling of voyeurism, of prying into the intimacy of a family as she remembered prospective buyers walking through her house. She moved quickly back to the open space in the centre. A woman was sitting on a small mat and peeling vegetables. She was thick set with hands that were age and work roughened and she wore the clothes of a Berber. The fabric was woven of blues and scarlet and held with a pin that was a twist of silver. But not shiny, glittery silver. It was a silver of the earth with a solid glow that reminded Lizzie of pewter. The woman’s hair seemed long and pulled back under her scarf.

  Lizzie stood and watched, and the woman looked up, and Lizzie realised she was expecting to be photographed. After all, this was a tourist group. As the head bent again over her work and the knife jabbed and swirled around the vegetables, Lizzie had a quick image of Nanna. The hands. The hair. The doing what it takes to survive. The sense of how she would gleefully mock them later to her family and friends. Lizzie did not use her camera but as others came out from the rooms, many of them did.

  Later, she realised she did not have even one photo of Nanna. Nanna would have peeled vegetables for tourists, if it had helped Gwennie or Lizzie. OK, Abdul, I’m glad I didn’t snarl at you. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there are more similarities about families than I admitted.