The Desert Castle (8 page)

‘
Mr
.
Randall, would you mind if I experimented with the frescoes in here first
?
’
she said loudly.

‘
It was Gregory when I showed you the other frescoes,
’
he reminded her. He looked about the room, his legs slightly apart and his hands on his hips.
‘
This room was part of the women
’
s quarters, which makes the subject matter of many of the frescoes rather—startling, shall we say? I hope they won
’
t shock you.
’

S
he forgot her anger with him and laughed.
‘
I have
seen the naked female form before, Mr
.
Randall,
’
she
said demurely.

He gave her an appreciative smile.
‘
I don
’
t doubt it,
’
he mocked her.
‘
Will you bring the list of what you need to the lunch table? It
’
s still winter, and the weather is rather unsettled. I
’
d rather Denise got away well before dark.
’

She nodded. She could hardly wait for him to shut the door behind him, before flinging herself on to the bed. She was seldom tired, and she refused to admit that she was tired now, but the strain of having Gregory Randall in the same room with her had told on her nerves and had left her feeling as flat as a pancake. The less she saw of
him
while she was here the better, she thought. She would concentrate on those glorious frescoes and spend all the rest of her time with Lucasta. It sounded a very satisfacto
r
y programme and she hugged herself with glee. Imagine it, the wonder of it, to make those pictures come to life again, to restore their colours to their original singing hues, and to piece together the parts that were missing with the same delicate touch that her father had taught her so painstakingly in Greece.

She looked about the room, trying to make the shadowy figures on the wall come alive Only some of them were women, she discovered. The rest, in various stages of fright, seemed to be trying to rush across a narrow bridge which was held by devils equally intent on throwing them off, down into the abyss on either side. Could this be someone
’
s idea of the Entrance
of
Paradise? It seemed likely, for, in another place, massed soldiers were advancing, their war wounds very much in evidence, apparently certain
of
their place in heaven. So the women were the ever-virgin houris who would add to their delights throughout eternity, Marion decided, and was annoyed to discover that Gregory Randall had been right.
The
frankness of the pictures had shocked her after all, not for what they revealed, but
more because of the attitude of mind they implied. It was not her idea of paradise to spend her eternity beneath the soles of her husband
’
s feet, if she were lucky enough to be there at all. Yet had the Christians of the time given their women a better deal? Not if the evidence of St Anthony, cowering away from the evils of womankind in the desert, could be believed.

After a while she sat on the edge of the bed and wrote out her list of requirements. She hoped Denise would be able to get the things she wanted and that she wouldn
’
t have to send home to her mother for some of them. Water seemed to be in plentiful supply, and it would probably be possible to buy a soda-less soap, but she was less certain about the chemicals. Aceticum anhydricane, barium hydroxide and pyriduium all were essential for what she wanted to do She wrote them down, and then wrote them down
again
in capital letters in case Denise couldn
’
t read her wri
ting.

Then, even though she knew they were probably al
l
waiting to start lunch, she took a last look at the faded frescoes, arguing with herself exactly how she was going to tackle their restoration. First she thought
she
would begin in one place and then in another, and then she noticed the small, shy-looking
houri
in the
corner
of the room who had something familiar about her, though quite what it was Marion couldn
’
t decide. She would begin with her, she decided, because she felt an immediate sympathy with her. She knew just how she felt with all those soldiers marching into heaven. She, too, would have hidden in a
corner
under the circumstances and hope to be overlooked.
Th
at was how she felt when Gregory Randall stood over her, looking down at her with that superior air of his, his mouth a tight
lin
e of disapproval. Not that Gregory would want her, but the poor little
houri
couldn
’
t have been as certain of escaping the horrible fate in store for her.

A knock at the door broke into her day-dream and Marion opened the door to the bundle of
cheap
black material on the other side. A pair of gleaming, blue-grey eyes peered curiously through the veil that hung from her head down her back and which she had pulled across to half-hide her face. Marion sought for some kind of greeting in her mind and came out with,
‘
Marhaba.
Hullo.
’
The woman looked blank, producing a shy greeting of her own, and beckoned, palm downwards, for Marion to follow her into the dining-room.

‘
A
h, Zein—I beg her pardon, Umm Haroun! The birth of her son is too recent for me to have got used to her new name!—she found you all right
?
’

‘
Yes,
’
Marion smiled.
‘
I thought
marhaba
meant hullo in Arabic, but she didn
’
t seem to understand me.
’

‘
The Bedouin dialect is very different from the Arabic that the Palestinians speak, for example. Unless they can speak both they don
’
t understand each other at all.
’

‘
And you speak both
?
’
Marion said, knowing the answer even as she asked the question.

‘
A little.
’

Marion took her seat at the table.
‘
Are all the original Jordanians Bedouin
?
’
she wanted to know.

He shrugged.
‘
Most of them, I suppose. Those who are not Circassians, or Druses, or Samaritans, or the descendants of the Crusaders, most of whom are still Christians.
’

‘
Samaritans
?
’
Marion gasped.
‘
Like the Good Samaritan in the Bible
?
’

‘
Like him, and like the woman at the well,
’
he confirmed.
‘
Nothing much changes around here except on the surface.
’

Lucasta nudged Marion
’
s arm.
‘
You should have been here earlier,
’
she whispered.
‘
Gregory had to find some knives and forks for us himself! He doesn
’
t bother when he
’
s by himself, but Denise insisted.
’

Marion looked round the table and wondered how he managed without some kind of cutlery. A great pile of flat bread had been
p
laced in the centre of the
table and was surrounded by bowls of different substances that made her mouth water to look at them.

‘
One has standards
!
’
Denise declared forcefully.
‘
It is not good to be a savage,
mon
ami
,
as Papa would soon tell you.
’

‘
Indeed, he would,
’
Gregory agreed.
‘
But when in Rome, I like to do as the Romans do. A
knife
and fork adds nothing to the taste of the food.
’
He turned lazy, dark blue eyes on to Marion
’
s face.
‘
What do you
think
?
’

‘
I
’
d like to know how to do it properly,
’
she admitted.

Denise raised her eyes heavenwards.
‘
But what is properly
?
’
she muttered.
‘
It is known that the French cuisine is the best in the world, therefore—
’
She picked up her knife and fork, leaving the rest of her sentence to their imagination.

Gaston nodded across the table at her.
‘
Knives and forks for French cuisine are a necessity, but nobody would describe this as French cuisine
!
’
He too picked up a fork and waved it in the air to make his point.

Zein, the Mother of Haroun, apparently understood too, for she picked out a fork from the pile on the table and offered it to Marion, nodding towards the food.

‘
Laal
,
’
Gregory roared at her. He took the fork in his own hand and put it back on the table. He tore off a portion of bread and dipped it into one of the bowls, putting it against Marion
’
s lips.
‘
Open wide
!
’
he bade her, and popped it into her mouth.

‘
What is it
?
’
she demanded as the strange taste broke across her tongue.

‘
That one is ground up chick-peas with olive oil. Try one of those little meat balls and with it this dip of yoghourt and lemon juice.
’
He smiled with satisfaction at her delighted pleasure, and said something in her own language to Zein, who giggled and shyly turned away from the table.

‘
What did you say to her
?
’
Marion asked him, her face alight with laughter.

‘
I said if you had been brought up on her cooking you might have grown into a large lady—
’

‘
That has nothing to do with it,
’
Marion retorted.
‘
It
’
s all in one
’
s genes, I
’
m sure of it. But if all the food is like this I will go back to England a good deal fatter than when I came!
’

He laughed too.
‘
It
’
s difficult to be moderate when everything is new,
’
he agreed.
‘
If you will accept a little advice, leave a little space for the next course, which is the traditional Bedouin dish of
Mansef.
This is only meant to be the hors d
’
oeuvres.
’

‘
Goodness,
’
said Marion.

She was glad she had followed his advice though when Umm Haroun cleared away the first course and brought in an enormous dish of rice, mixed with roast nuts and pine seeds, with a lavish quantity of lamb on top.

‘
Mansef
means literally “a big dish
,”
Gregory said drily, enjoying the expressive wonder on her face.
‘
Perhaps, for this, you
’
d better use a fork,
’
he added.

It was terribly good. The vision she had had of herself being forced to eat the eye of the animal that had been conjured up by his telling her that this was a traditional Bedouin dish receded, and Marion set to with a will and ate one of the most enormous meals ever to have come her way, despite Gregory
’
s open amusement at the extent of her appetite.

‘
Do you always eat as well as this
?
’
she asked him.