Strangers. Danuta Reah
father had bought as his family expanded. Abu Abdulaziz Karim ibn Ahmad al-Amin was a traditional Saudi patriarch. He had two wives, five sons and three daughters. The daughters lived in their father’s house, the brothers, all married, each had a house of their own.
In all the years Damien had known the family, he had never met the women, had only been aware sometimes of a veiled presence in the car, or waiting in the background. All he knew about Majid’s mother, the second wife, was the name she had started using once she had given birth to a son: Um Majid–the mother of Majid.
The relationship between the brothers was complex and sometimes difficult but they never showed the internal rifts to him, the outsider. Family was all. Majid had once told him of a Saudi saying: ‘Me and my brother against the cousin.’ Damien already knew the saying, and he knew what came next: Me and my cousin against the stranger.
Majid’s marriage had caused some ripples in the family. In most ways it was a very suitable marriage; his wife, Yasmin, was the daughter of a wealthy businessman, but she was an only child and though she had been brought up in Riyadh, she had travelled in Europe and had been educated at a Parisian university. And she wasn’t a true Saudi. Her mother was European and her father was the son of a Saudi mother and Armenian father. He was one of the few foreigners who had been allowed to take Saudi citizenship, but the insular Saudi culture still held him an outsider. He had brought his daughter back from Europe to marry Majid, no doubt hoping that his daughter’s marriage into a Saudi family of the reputation and longevity of Majid’s would help to integrate him more closely. Yasmin worked as a teaching assistant at Riyadh’s King Saud University, and she was independent and opinionated by Saudi standards.
His phone rang as he was preparing to leave. He waited to see who was calling. ‘Damien? It’s Amy. Are you there?’ He moved to answer it, then stopped. He was late, and conversations with Amy tended to lead into deeper water than he felt able to cope with at the moment. He let his hand drop as he heard her impatient sigh. ‘Call me.’
Amy. The quick instruction was typical. Call me. He would, but later. As he negotiated the car through the hazardous traffic, he couldn’t stop himself thinking of her as he’d last seen her, her red hair springing up round her head, her towel slipping casually down as she leaned forward so he could light her cigarette, beautiful in the lamplight. And then they’d had a pointless row about
—what? He couldn’t remember. It had been one of many that had been not so much reconciled as forgotten in his bed.
Twenty minutes later, he pulled up outside the gated compound where the family lived, and waited for the gates to swing open. Majid came to greet him and led him through the courtyard into the large room where the men customarily sat. Two of Majid’s brothers were already there, talking to a third man, a man in Western dress who was sitting with his head turned away from the door. He looked round as Majid ushered Damien in.
Damien recognized him at once. This was Majid’s father-in-law, Arshak Nazarian. Nazarian, an attractive, debonair man, described himself as a ‘businessman’. The nature of his business–bringing cheap migrant labour into the Kingdom–made Damien wary of him. He avoided Nazarian’s company as far as he could.
Faisal, the oldest of the brothers and head of the family in the father’s absence, greeted Damien with a standard ‘Peace be upon you.’
Damien returned the greeting politely, wondering what he had interrupted as he took the seat that Majid urged him to. Over the years, Damien had become accustomed to the Arab style of sitting, usually cross-legged on floor cushions. It had felt awkward and uncomfortable at first, but now it felt natural.
He accepted a cup of coffee, light and spiced with cardamom, that the houseboy offered him, and made his enquiries about the family and their well-being. The houseboy stood vigilant, waiting to refill the cups. The conversation was desultory and wandered around the unusual nature of the recent heat and the pious hope that God would soon relieve the drought.
Damien realized quickly that there was something wrong, even though Majid’s pleasure at seeing him had been sincere. But Nazarian’s sudden silence on his entry, the oblique references to the inclemency of the weather, which was much the same as usual, the calling down of God’s blessing that they might soon have rain, which was, in fact, unlikely, carried meaning beyond the mere facts that were being expressed. People who wanted to understand Arabic had to have an ear for metaphor, but Damien couldn’t pick up the underlying message. He decided he wouldn’t prolong the visit, but leave as soon as politeness permitted.
Nazarian said abruptly, ‘We will discuss this later.’ He stood up and held out his hand to Damien. ‘O’Neill,’ he said. ‘Good to see you. There are things I need to talk to you about.’ He spoke in English, though all the previous exchanges had been in Arabic.
‘Call my office,’ Damien said. He had no interest in a meeting with Nazarian if he could avoid it.
Nazarian gave him a long look, then made his farewells to the brothers. Damien waited until he had gone before he said, ‘Your father-in-law is looking well.’ He was curious about the conversation his arrival had clearly interrupted.
Majid’s face darkened. ‘He is concerned about his daughter.’
Damien never asked about the women in the family in the presence of the traditional Faisal, and with Majid, he always waited until the other man introduced the topic.
‘Your wife is well?’
Majid looked frustrated. ‘She wants a holiday, before the baby is born. She wants to go to Europe, but I have decided that we will stay in the Kingdom for now.’
So Nazarian probably represented the big guns to bring Yasmin into line. Majid wouldn’t want to discuss his own inability to persuade his wife to do what he wanted, so Damien changed the subject. ‘I met the new man today. Joe Massey. He’s come to work at the hospital.’ Majid was always interested in the ex-pats that came into the country.
Majid frowned. ‘Joe Massey? A doctor? I have met him before.’
‘He’s a pathologist. He was here a few months ago. What’s he like?’
‘I did not know him at all.’ Majid’s voice was dismissive. ‘He was employed at the hospital when there was a drugs theft. Now, my friend, what do you think about the election?’
The topic of Joe Massey was firmly cut off for one that Majid’s brothers could contribute to. Damien made a mental note to ask Majid about Massey at a better time, and settled back to listen to a discussion he’d heard many times since the elections–the first ever to be held in the Kingdom–were announced. The powerful religious lobby was exercising its influence on the polls and there was tension between traditionalists and reformers. Dissent had surged through the Kingdom, casting its ripples and eddies in odd and disturbing places.
Damien murmured something anodyne and left the brothers to debate the issue while his own thoughts drifted to Amy. If he had picked up the phone, he could be with her now.
Her mouth had tasted of honey in the shaded room, and his tongue could still recapture the faint salt taste from her upper lip where the sweat had beaded. Her hair had been soft and springy under his fingers. She had had a fragrance like the sea. ‘You aren’t real,’ he’d murmured. ‘You’re one of those creatures who lures men to disaster.’
She’d laughed. ‘A siren? I don’t think so.’
‘Or a mermaid. Don’t they call men to their doom?’
Her skin had been warm under his fingers, and her face was flushed. ‘I’m no mermaid, Damien. See?’ And in the shadowed room, he could see.
Majid was saying something, and he shook his head to clear his mind. ‘I’m sorry?’ he said.
‘What is your opinion, Damien?’
Damien never commented on the politics of the Kingdom unless he was expressly invited to do so. The Saudis, like most people of the Middle East, were weary of criticism after years of outside interference.