Eight Months on Ghazzah Street. Hilary Mantel
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accumulation of dun-coloured dust on its leaves; wake up, wake up, you have arrived. The first night has passed now, the severance is complete; the journey is a phantom, the real world recedes.
Andrew brought coffee. To her surprise, she felt chilly. He had always been bothered by the heat, and so it was his habit now to sleep with the air conditioners on, rattling and banging away all night. No wonder she hadn’t slept properly. She had dreamt she was in a railway siding, with the endless shunting, and the scrape of metal wheels.
Andrew was already dressed, buttoning his white shirt, plucking a tie from inside the wardrobe door. His muddy overalls and his safety helmet would be elsewhere, she supposed, although he had said in his letters that he would spend more time shuffling papers than he would at the site; ‘Pity you couldn’t come at a weekend,’ he said. ‘I feel bad about going off and leaving you to it.’
‘What time is it?’ She shivered.
‘Six-thirty. Back at three. Sometimes I have a siesta and go into the office for the early evening, but I’ll not do that today. We can go shopping. I’ll show you round. Are you hungry?’
‘No. Yes, a bit.’
‘There’s stuff in the fridge, you’ll find it. Steak for dinner.’
So everything was ready for her, as he had said it would be. When she had blundered through the rooms, an hour ago, she saw pale airy spaces, a vast expanse of beige and freshly hoovered carpet. Pieces of furniture, new, smelling of plastic sheeting, stood grouped here and there; a dozen armchairs, a gleaming polished expanse of table-top, a white, antiseptic bathroom. Quite different from the old life: the donkey boiler at the back of the house, and the tin roof, and the sofas and beds which had gone from family to family.
‘I may have been dreaming,’ Andrew said, ‘but did you go on a pre-dawn tour?’
‘I’m sorry if I woke you.’
‘The prayer call wakes me anyway. What do you think of the flat? There was a house, it was on a compound with some of the Ministry of Petroleum people, but Jeff lives there – you said you didn’t want him for a neighbour. It’s taken now anyway. You don’t get a lot of choice, Turadup has to rent what it’s told. It’s a big source of income for Saudi families, letting houses to expats.’
‘Who owns these flats?’
‘I think it’s the Deputy Minister’s uncle.’
‘Who paid for all the stuff? The new furniture?’
‘The company. They’ve redecorated the whole place as well.’
‘They’re looking after us. It’s not like Africa.’
‘Well, in Africa nobody cared whether you came or went. If you found it too tough you just drifted off.’
‘But here they care?’
‘They try to keep you comfortable. The thing is it’s not a very comfortable place. Still,’ he said, recollecting himself, ‘the money’s the thing.’
Frances pushed back the sheets, swung her legs out of bed. ‘One thing that seems rather odd…last night when we arrived I saw those big front doors, I thought there’d be a shared hallway, but you brought me in through a side door, straight into our kitchen. I’ve found that side door, but where’s our front door? How do I get into the hall?’
‘You don’t, at the moment. The front door’s been blocked off. Pollard says there was this Arab couple living here before, quite well-off, the woman was related to our Minister, and they were staying here while they had a villa built, they were just married, you see. The husband was very strictly religious, and he had the doorway bricked up.’
‘What, you mean he bricked her up inside it?’
‘No. Twit.’
‘I thought you meant like a nun in the Dark Ages. So she could pray all day.’
‘They don’t pray all day,’ Andrew said, ‘just the statutory five times, dawn, noon, mid-afternoon, sunset, and at night.’ He was full of information; wide-awake, which she couldn’t claim for herself. ‘It’s amazing, you know. Everything stops. The shops shut. People stop work. You’re just stuck there.’
‘This doorway, Andrew…’
‘Yes, he bricked it up so that she couldn’t go out into the hall, where she might run into one of the male neighbours, you see, or a tradesman. She could go out of the side door, in her veil of course, and just round the side of the building by the wall, and then her driver would pull into that little alleyway, and she’d step straight out of the side gate and into the car. And the cars have these curtains on the back windows, did you notice last night?’
‘I didn’t notice anything last night. You’re not teasing me?’
‘No, it’s true. They have curtains, so once she’s inside the car she can put her veil back.’
‘How eminently sensible.’ She looked down at her bare white knees, at her bare feet on the new beige carpet. Andrew had made love to her last night. She remembered nothing about it.
‘It must be hot,’ Andrew said, ‘under those veils.’ He put his empty coffee mug down on the dressing-table. ‘Oh, there’s yoghurt,’ he said, ‘if you feel like yoghurt for breakfast. There’s cornflakes. Must go, I’m late.’
‘Will you ring me?’
‘No phone. Next week, ins’allah.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘I hate it when I hear myself say that, but everybody says it. If God wills this, and if God wills that. It seems so defeatist. I love you, Fran.’
‘Yes.’ She looked up to meet his eyes. What has God to do with the telephone company, she wondered. Andrew had gone. She heard a door slam and his key turn in the lock. For a second she was frozen with surprise. He had locked her in.
It’s just habit, she said to herself; he’d been living here alone. Somewhere, lying around, there would be a bunch of keys for her own use. Not that she would be going out this morning. There didn’t seem much to do in the flat, but she must unpack. On her first morning in her first house in Zambia, she had scrubbed a floor in the steamy heat. At eleven o’clock the neighbours came calling, to take her shopping list away with them and do it, and to issue dinner invitations, and ask if she wanted a kitten to keep snakes away; and then in the afternoon a procession of young men had come up the path, looking for work.
She sipped her coffee, listening to the distant hum of traffic. When she had finished it she sat for a long time, looking into the cup. In the end, with a small sigh, she put it down on the teak laminated bedside cabinet. Then she took a Kleenex from the box by the bed, and wiped up the ring it had made. She sat for a little longer, with the crumpled tissue in her hand. Later she would remember quite clearly these first few minutes alone on Ghazzah Street, these tired, half-automatic actions; how her first, her original response to Jeddah had been boredom, inertia, a disinclination to move from the bed or look out of the window to see what was going on outside. With hindsight she would think, if I had known then what I know now, I would have moved, I would have looked, I would have noticed everything and written it down; and my response would not have been boredom, but fear.
2
When Andrew Shore went to Jeddah he was thirty-three years old: a heavy, deliberate young man, bearded, with a professional expatriate’s workaday suntan, and untidy clothes with many evident pockets; rather like the popular image of a war photographer. He had a flat blue eye, and a sceptical expression, and a capacity for sitting out any situation; this latter attribute had stood him in good stead in his professional life. In Africa it was always counter-productive to lose your temper. It made the local people laugh at you, and gave you high blood pressure. If you wanted to get anything done, the best way was to pretend that you were not interested in doing it at all; that you would, in fact, be happy to sit under this tree