Gwennie's Girl Page 25

  By this time, they were all tired and looking forward to stopping for the night. They were in a whole complex of caves—an underground maze that would blow the minds of accommodation star-givers. One star, five stars. How would they rate such a place? Lizzie could get no sense of layout as she waited in a small space that had tunnels and passages running off in several directions. This space had been white washed but the passages were gloomy with the patina of age on dark golden crumbly walls and floors.

  She waited as first the Germans, then the French and then an Arabic couple were allocated rooms. She could understand them doing the larger groups first but she was tired now and wondered what sort of bed would be left at the end of line for the woman travelling alone.

  Finally, the crowd cleared and El Shef came to her, picked up her pack and led the way. They passed several large spaces with beds lined up close together. Oh no! Dormitory style. With a crowd of strangers. I’ll probably be left with the bed that no one wants and have to smile dumbly at a herd of people I don’t want to know and there is always someone who snores and someone who sniffs. What the hell am I doing here? And, excuse me, El Shef, but where are we going?

  Out to a space of a hundred stars. El Shef, I love you.

  He took her past the crowded rooms to a tiny courtyard at least thirty feet below the surface where there was a scraggly tree—bloody hell, it is a gum tree!—stretching up to the evening sky that was coming alive with stars. Up a scrambly, rocky set of rough-hewn steps. Into her own little space. She loved it. The whole area had been white washed so that it hugged the last remaining light. There was a wide shelf cut out along one wall and a thin mattress with two crisp looking white sheets. It was all white on white again, and she would look up through the peasant-lace branches to the night sky. She loved it. El Shef, you’re a wonderful man, and I hope you have many children, wives, camels, goats and four-wheeled trucks to comfort you in your old age. She smiled her thanks. He smiled back. He didn’t move. He stayed firmly inside the opening of the little cave, which was definitely “littler” with him in it.

  Oh-oh, Lizzie. You don’t suppose…?

  Don’t sit down. Say thank you. Firmly. Look towards the open area. He is still not moving. Thank you. How firm did she have to sound? Well, there is nothing else for it but to…look wan, flutter, sigh, look weak and exhausted, look longingly at the bed—No! Don’t look longingly at the bed! And do not make eye contact! Start fussing with your pack and look up as though surprised he is still there. That’s it. Attagirl. Goodbye, El Shef. Goodbye, El Shef. Goodbye El Shef!! Off you go. Thank you!

  Now watch your step, Lizzie. Or are you kidding yourself? You’re probably kidding yourself. He’s just being nice. This is a wonderful bonus compared to crowded rooms so just be grateful and don’t let your imagination run away with you. Do not, repeat, do not develop into one of those aging women who think every man who is pleasant to them is actually lusting after their cellulosed bodies.

  She took the two steps to the door of “her” cave and stretched luxuriously, watching her hands reach up and up to the sky. She felt she could scratch up stars with her long fingernails. She always kept her nails long—memories of Nanna. Not that Nanna had long nails. Nanna had working nails. But when Lizzie was growing up and could see for herself that while her eyes were like Gwennie’s the rest of her just did not have the specialness of Gwennie, Nanna could say, ‘You’re no beauty, my darling girl, but you have lovely eyes and nails. You can do or be anything you decide to be in the whole world. Just set your mind to do it or be it.’ So the only make-up Lizzie wore was mascara and nail polish.

  Now she dropped her hands and wrapped herself about herself for the sheer pleasure of the night, the stars and the gum-tree here in the middle of a desert. Time to change. Get rid of the dust. Eat. Shit, she was hungry, and she had to find her way back through the labyrinth to where dinner would be.

  Now there’s a challenge worthy of Nanna herself.

  Eventually, Lizzie found her way. She came to another subterranean courtyard and an opening off it, which went to a room set with tables. Everyone else seemed to be in there, seated already. Ugh! She did hate to join a crowd of strangers for meals. Then Abdul was at her side, smiling. ‘Lizzie, there is a special place for you—it is too hot in there with all those people. Sit here.’

  He pointed to an adjoining, tiny courtyard where a small table was set for one under those glorious stars, and the air was caressing the darkness.

  Joy. Abdul, you are the Prince of guides. That’s exactly what I would like. I shall follow you anywhere.

  Lizzie moved to the table. It was simply made of rough wood, and there was a wooden chair. At the place set at the table was what looked like a parcel of dried grass or straw which she supposed must be a local way of cooking or something so she sat and began to pick at it, tentatively.

  Abdul grinned. ‘Lizzie, you are a special guest. You must sit tall at table. This is a cushion. You should sit on it—not eat it.’

  Oops! Foreign lady makes a fool of herself. Quickly. Quickly. Cushion on chair. Bum on cushion. Foolish smile on face. Now, foreign lady is ready. Could she eat, please?

  She could. She did. And it was good. Of course, she felt a little conspicuous perched up on her cushion while Abdul talked to her and a buxom, motherly looking woman brought in the expected warm bread and hot brown stew. Now there is a stupid expression: “motherly-looking”. What the hell does that mean? What makes one woman look motherly and another not? Big breasts? A certain sort of smile? A tiredness around the eyes? A sense of irritability? A look of desperation? Bruises? A cut lip?

  Enough. Enough now.

  Lizzie sat in a cool white cotton dress, ate her dinner and delighted in the feel of her skin, the light from the stars, the warmth of the bread and the taste of hot brown stew. As the other diners straggled out, there were envious and curious looks. Abdul chatted easily. Lizzie relaxed. Life was good. El Shef came to bid her goodnight. Abdul interpreted, ‘El Shef said you’re probably tired. Rest well tonight. Tomorrow night will be special.’ Lizzie smiled her thanks. El Shef looked almost smug. She must have been mistaken. This was just nice and efficient.

  Mr Bulky is making sure the customer is satisfied.

  Er… maybe you could have chosen another expression other than “satisfied”, Miss Smart Arse who thinks she is irresistible. Go to bed, woman.

  The next day was magical as they entered the desert of fantasies. Golden dunes that danced to the rhythm of the breath of soft breezes. Golden dunes that held hands with the distant sky in a wedding of blue and captured, rolling, swelling sunlight. At one stop, she wandered a little way and sat with her back to the group. It was like being at sea. The forever-ness of it all enveloped her and carried her into it. She was sitting in colour and light as if they were all that was—just colour and light

  Back into the vehicles.

  And then, the camels. Lizzie had not actually realised that this was part of the day’s plan. But there they were, lots and lots of camels sitting folded on the sand, chewing and blinking eyes that were incredibly long-lashed like cartoon drawings of arrogant seductive, simpering females. Everyone seemed to be choosing a camel.

  How the hell does one know how to choose a camel? Presumably, one does what everyone else is doing—just make a dive, take the reins and scramble on whichever camel is vacant. Here goes nothing!

  ‘Lizzie.’ It was Abdul and El Shef. Both smiling.

  Look guys, I am feeling just a little strained about this part of the deal. Don’t give me any grief. I’ll do it. I’ll do it. Just give me a minute.

  ‘Lizzie, you must not ride one of those camels.’

  Now, just a minute. I might decide I don’t want to ride a camel but that is my decision, boys. I’ll decide. You don’t tell me I can’t just because I think I don’t want to ride one.

  ‘Lizzie. Come.’

  I suppose that gorgeous smile means the same as please? Where are we going? Oh-ho. There
is another camel over there all by itself. What is wrong with this camel? Yes, it is a beautiful looking creature—as camels go. It is almost white with long thick hair or fur or whatever you call it and, yes, it is wearing a beautiful saddle or seat or whatever you call it. Yes, thank you. I’m delighted to ride this camel. Thank you.

  Abdul, what are you doing now? What is that long piece of cloth you are folding? Is it some intricate way of gagging prisoners? You want me to wear it? It is not a gag. It is for my hair. Of course, I knew that, I think. Wrap it around my hair and then pull it across my face like a veil. Of course. Now my hair and my face are protected. Thank you Abdul. Yes, now I shall get into the saddle or seat or whatever you call it. There is just one thing. I feel like a bit of dork sitting here in my old purple sneakers (I must get rid of these sneakers) and my old jeans and daggy T-shirt with my head elegantly swathed in this fine cloth. Still, I don’t suppose it matters. As long as I can stay on this bloody camel. Which is now feeling quite insecure underneath me. What is that man doing? Abdul, where have you gone? El Shef, where are you? Everyone else is sitting on a camel—minus veil—everyone seems to be looking this way. No, they are not looking here anymore. There is quite of lot of squealing from all those other people because their camels are unfolding and it is not exactly looking elegant. Maybe it is not too late to change my mind.

  Maybe it is too late. Now that they are all standing quietly, my steed seems to think he should do something to attract attention. He is lurching forward. He is lurching backwards. Now forwards again. He is straightening up and up and up and up. How come I got the biggest bloody camel? It is not as though I am given to exaggeration. This really is the most ginormous camel in the whole desert. I am sitting miles above the level of everyone else. I have survived the standing up bit. My nails are now permanently embedded into leather and my teeth may never unlock again but I am still here. And here are you, Abdul, on one side of me. And here are you, El Shef, on the other side And we are leading this caravan are we? Fine. Nanna, is this what you had in mind? Did you ever envisage your darling girl sitting on a white camel looking quite ridiculous between two dashing men and sashaying her way across a storybook desert? If you did, you could have given me a hint.

  After a couple of hours, they left the camels and loaded back into vehicles. Everyone was tired. It was the end of the afternoon and the heat now had a hard edge to it. There was little conversation and the few exchanges sounded sharp, spiky and were quickly cut off.

  Lizzie was relieved when, once again, most people dozed and the only noise was of the wheels on the looseness of the track. Abdul glanced at her, then at the other passengers, back again and grinned what was almost a grimace. She guessed that being a tour guide would not always be the fun-filled party of the brochures. They travelled as quickly as the surface and roads would allow. Abdul seemed anxious to reach the evening destination. All the vehicles seemed to sense each other’s haste just as horses (and probably camels) do at the end of a ride. Gradually, the blaze and glare of the sun became diluted. It was not a softening, more a being overtaken by the night and darkness. This twilight was more steely than silver. And the heat remained.

  When they finally arrived it was at a low building made of stone that seemed taken straight from the earth around it and piled and shaped without altering at all its colour or substance. At first, it seemed isolated in the emptiness of the now greying desert. Then, as they came around to the other side, there was lush green. They were on the edge of a small oasis—just some trees with green beneath them straggling and bending as if they had grown too quickly or drunk too deeply for fear of some encroaching enemy. People piled out of the vehicles complaining of being hot and tired and thirsty. Where were the bags? Where were the rooms? But mostly, where were the showers?

  Abdul and El Shef, is there any chance that I could rate special treatment again? I shall be your slave for life. Whatever I have will be yours. Just keep me away from these irritable strangers.

  As people jostled with luggage and made their way through the arched door, there was a quietness. Even hot and tired, perhaps because they were hot and tired, there was an awareness of stepping into another world. They were in an open space of coolness and freshness where a large pool of turquoise was surrounded by shadowed alcoves with large stones that did not shine but which glowed with the matt finish of soft chalky powder. It was a place that reached out to shush the whining and the bustle. Slowly, shoulders relaxed, voices calmed, people sat on the floor on their bags, waited and remembered they were on holiday, remembered they had wanted an adventure. Slowly, smiles reappeared. With a sense of timing, that was obviously the result of experience, the guides let them sit awhile, then, after drinks had appeared on metal trays, rooms were allocated. It was just as well the moods had been broken because the rooms were not dormitories—most had three or four beds only and there were only two showers for the whole group. Queuing was inevitable but now people just shrugged and accepted the wait.

  Lizzie waited again while the others moved off. ‘Lizzie. Come.’

  Abdul, I do wish you would occasionally not speak in orders but if you have something special for me I shall forgive anything. Anything. You do. Abdul, this room has only one bed and it is a big luxurious looking bed and I am the only person in here. Abdul, I love you. There is a stone alcove. Fine. Fine? I take that back. Not fine but wonderful, heavenly, miraculous. It has a shower. It is all mine. Bliss is a trickle of water all to yourself without other people’s grey suds at your feet and without other people panting outside a grimy curtain. Thank you, Abdul, thank you, El Shef who is standing behind you looking pleased. You are both wonderful.

  As the door closed, she realised she could still hear their voices. Looking up she saw that the top one third of the wall was of stone latticework. They were in the room next door and probably also had a private shower. They deserved it, those wonderful kind men. Well, Abdul was leaving. She hoped he had a decent room. She stepped out of her clothes, turned the lever that was a tap and stood under the water which wasn’t hot but because of the heat it was not cold. It just wasn’t hot. She felt it slide down over her hair and her face and neck and down over her body. There was no force in it, just a gentle slithering that rinsed away the dust and fine grained sand.

  Despite the veil, there was sand even in her hair. The water made its way slowly. She spiralled slowly so that it curved its way about her, slipping in and out of the hollows and rounds of her. She twisted and twirled in its flow. She cupped her hands and caught the soft stream until it welled up, over her arms and down her breasts. Her hair clung to her, glistening in the wetness. Her eyes closed, and she was only sensation, only surface. Then she reached for the soap and slowly, oh so, so slowly she moved it across her belly and her thighs. It was soft on her softness, and she felt herself part of the satin caress of its liquid perfume. She moaned quietly for the joy of it. This might be the shower above all showers.

  At last, it was over. She reached for her towel and patted herself dry, stepped into fresh under clothes, and now the heat was there again as a wrap, as a comforter. She unfolded her white dress and flipped it in the air to slip it over her head. As she did so, her hair flew out in wet strands and the day’s veil caught on top of the dress, floated into the air.

  The image of her nightmare flashed in front of her. It was Iphigenia’s veil. The heat. The dampness. The soldiers. No wind. No mercy. The water. She was in the water. Her hair floated across her eyes. Her eyes were closed. They made her open them. She didn’t want to open them. She didn’t want to…they were making her…the water. The veil had dropped into the water on the shower base where it was just a piece of cloth in a soggy pile on the base of a shower. She picked it up, squeezed out the water, spread it across the lever that was the tap. It would dry. It would be OK. It would be OK. It would be OK. She heard the words in her mind, like a mantra. It would be OK. It would be OK. It would be OK. It is OK. She left the room and joined the other travellers a
t the archway that left the shadowy protection and led out into the night and the stars.

  They walked together on a sandy path down into the trees, and as they walked, they could see a fire. Dinner tonight was couscous under date palms by the dancing light of a fire. They sat on small woven mats in circles of three or four people. A great bowl was set in the middle of each circle, and the circles formed a greater circle about the fire. The intensity of the fire made the night outside the circles very black, and the leaping flames sparred with the passive heat that sat on the land all around them. Somewhere on the other side of the fire, someone played a drum the sound of which came out of the darkness and crossed the light to reach her. Then a voice began to sing a haunting of high, unfamiliar rhythm coiling in and out of the flames. A song of love? Lizzie couldn’t be sure.

  She remembered that first loving in her first summer in Europe. It had been a brief and going—nowhere sort of loving but it had been part of her healing. He was married. He said he loved Lizzie and certainly, they had a wonderful week. He had called because he was in Geneva on business, and a mutual friend had given him her number. They had probably been at parties together sometimes at home in Oz but didn’t know each other. It was just another stranger-from-home-in-town-sort of meeting for a drink. He said he didn’t have affairs, and Lizzie thought there was a possibility he was telling the truth. Certainly, she was taken aback to find herself having an affair. He had seemed to find her work interesting, how different could it be from computers? She sensed he seemed surprised and then almost frightened that he seemed attracted so intensely.

  What a lot of “seems”.

  He said he wanted to take care of her. He was, apparently, very wealthy and was honest about enjoying his wealth and all that he had achieved. All that he had achieved was measured in his wealth: a big house in an expensive part of the city; another big house at an expensive beach resort; big expensive cars; three expensive daughters; an expensive wife. He didn’t dislike his wife. Lizzie thought he was quite comfortable with her. And as he said, if he left his wife he could lose half of his achievements. Who had said anything about him leaving his wife? They had known each other only a few days.