The Doomed Oasis (8 page)

“Oh, I don't know. The Company owes him a lot.”

“Concessions, yes—and a string of dry wells. The man's a dangerous amateur. I'm warning you, Entwhistle—you talk like that when Erkhard visits you at Abu Dhabi and you'll be out so damn quick—”

“It's Gorde I deal with.”

“Okay. But you can take my word for it that it'll be Erkhard who does the next tour of inspection of the development sites. And unless you've got something to show him …”

The voices faded as the two men moved away, walking slowly and in step back towards the deck housing. David moved quickly, slipping down the ladder to the main deck, back to his position in the bows. He wanted to be alone, for that brief overheard conversation had given him a strange glimpse of the world on which he had set his heart.

The ship stopped at Masira Island with stores for the RAF, and then on again, rounding Ras al Hadd at night and ploughing northwest into the Gulf of Oman. On the afternoon of the seventh day out from Aden she anchored at Muscat, in a cove so narrow and rocky that David could scarcely believe his eyes; it might have been the Pembrokeshire coast of Wales except that a white, sun-drenched Arab town stood close by the water's edge at the head of the inlet. On either side the rocks bore the names of visiting ships with dates going back to the 1800's, all painted in foot-high letters. Long, double-ended boats of palm wood, their broad planks sewn together with thongs, swarmed round the ship, paddled by Arabs whose faces shone black in the sun.

They were there twenty-four hours, and in the night David thought more than once of diving over the side. The shore was so near. But, once ashore, what hope had he? There was nowhere for him to go. In a halting conversation with one of the crew, a coast Arab from a fishing village to the north called Khor al Fakhan, he learned that Muscat was backed by volcanic mountains of indescribable brutality. They were almost fifty miles deep, with every route through guarded by watch towers; and beyond the mountains was the desert of the Rub al Khali—the Empty Quarter. He knew it was hopeless, and so he stayed on board, and the next afternoon they sailed.

He was having his evening meal when he was told to report to the bridge. Captain Griffiths was there, seated on his wooden stool, staring out over the bows to the starlit sea ahead. The only other man on the bridge was the Arab helmsman, standing immobile, his eyes fixed on the lit compass card in its binnacle, only his hands moving as he made small adjustments of the wheel.

“Ah, there you are.” Griffiths had turned his head. “When I went ashore at Muscat last night there was a slave from Saraifa waiting for me with a message from your father. You'll doubtless be relieved to know that he's willing to take you off my hands.” And as David mumbled his thanks, the lips smiled behind the beard. “I may say I'm just as relieved as you are.” And he added brusquely: “There's an Arab
sambuq
waiting now off Ras al Khaima to pick you up. Tonight we shall pass through the Straits of Hormuz into the Persian Gulf. With luck we should sight the
sambuq
about an hour after dawn. Now, you speak Arabic, I'm told.”

“A little,” David admitted. “But it's not easy to make myself understood—it's the different dialects, I think.”

“Well, do you think you can pass yourself off as an Arab?” And without waiting for a reply, Griffiths added: “It's the passengers, you see. They'll talk if they see a white member of my crew being put aboard a dhow.” A few words of briefing and then the Captain's hand gripped his arm. “Good luck now, man. And a word of advice before you go—tread warily. It's no ordinary man you've got for a father, indeed it isn't. He's the devil of a temper when he's roused. So go easy and watch your step.” And with that he dismissed him and turned again in his seat to stare through the glass at the lights of a ship coming up over the dark horizon.

David left the bridge, dazed and almost reluctant, for now the future was upon him—unknown, a little frightening. At dawn he would leave the ship and the companionship of the men he'd lived with for the past few weeks, and that last link with the home he'd known all his life would steam away, leaving him alone in a strange country, amongst strange people. It surprised him that he felt no excitement, no exhilaration—only loneliness and a sense of desolation. He didn't know it then, but it was in this moment that he said goodbye to his boyhood.

The Mate found him sitting on his bunk, staring vacantly into space. “Here you are, Whitaker.” And he tossed a bundle of clothing down beside him. “Ali Mahommed sold them to me—
kaffyah, agal
, robe, sandals, the lot, even to an old brass
khanjar
knife. Three pounds ten, and I've deducted it from your pay.” He placed some East African notes and some silver on top of the clothes. “The Old Man told you what to do, did he? Okay, so long as you greet the
naukhuda
with a
salaam alaikum
and a few more words of Arabic. And get along to the paint-shop and put some stain on your face and hands. Your face is about as pink as a white baby's bottom.”

Dressing up as an Arab for the first time in his life helped to pass the time, but still the long hours of the night stretched ahead. He lay awake a long time thinking about what the morrow would bring and about the man he hadn't known was his father till that tragic day. And then suddenly it was light, and almost immediately, it seemed, one of the Arab crew came down to tell him the
sambuq
had been sighted. He listened then, waiting, tense and expectant. And then the pulse of the engines slowed and finally died away. This was it—the moment of irrevocable departure. His hand touched the brass hilt of the great curved, flat-bladed knife at his girdle. He checked the
kaffyah
, made certain that the black
agal
was in its place, circling his head. He went quickly up to the after well-deck and waited in the shelter of the main-deck ladder. The rope ladder was over the side opposite Number Three hatch, one of the crew waiting there to help him over. The faint chug of a diesel sounded in the still morning air, coming slowly nearer. He heard the bump of the dhow as it came alongside, the guttural cry of Arab voices, and then the man by the ladder was beckoning him.

He went out quickly with his head down, hidden by his
kaffyah
. A dark-skinned hand caught his arm, steadied him as he went over the bulwarks. Glancing quickly up, he caught a glimpse of the Captain leaning with his elbows on the rail of the bridge wing and below, on the boat deck, a short, tubby man in a pale dressing-gown standing watching. And after that he could see nothing but the ship's rusty side.

Hands reached up, caught him as he jumped to the worn wood deck of the dhow. He called out a greeting in Arabic as he had been told and at the same moment he heard the distant clang of the engine-room telegraph. The beat of the
Emerald Isle
's engines increased and the hull plates began to slide past, a gap opening between himself and the ship. He turned away to hide his face and found himself on a long-prowed craft built of battered wood, worn smooth by the years and bleached almost white by the torrid heat of the Persian Gulf. A single patched sail curved above it like the dirty wing of a goose hanging dead in the airless morning. The sea around was still as a mirror and white like molten glass, and then the swirl of the ship's screws shattered it.

There were three men on the
sambuq
and only the
naukhuda
, or captain, wore a turban as well as a loincloth. He was an old man with a wisp of a grey moustache and a few grey hairs on his chin, which he stroked constantly. The crew was composed of a smooth-faced boy with a withered arm and a big, barrel-chested man, black as a Negro, with a satin skin that rippled with every movement. The
naukhuda
took David's hand in his and held it for a long time, whilst the other two crowded close, staring at his face, feeling his clothes—six brown eyes gazing at him, full of curiosity. A flood of questions, the old man using the deferential
sahib
, legacy of India. Whenever David said anything, all three listened respectfully. But it was no good. He couldn't seem to make himself understood.

At length he gave it up and, judging that it would be safe now to turn his head to take a last look at the
Emerald Isle
, he was appalled to find that she had vanished utterly, swallowed in the humid haze of the day's beginning. For a time he could still hear the beat of her engines, but finally even that was gone and he was alone with his three Arabs on a flat calm sea that had an oily shimmer to its hard, unbroken surface.

He felt abandoned then, more alone than he'd ever been in his life before. But it was a mood that didn't last, for in less than an hour the haze thinned and away to port the vague outline of a mass of mountains emerged. A few minutes later and the sky was clear, a blue bowl reflected in the sea, and the mountains stood out, magnificent, tumbling down from the sky in sheer red cliffs to disappear in a mirage effect at the water's edge. Ahead, a long dhow stood with limp sail suspended in the air, and beyond it the world seemed to vanish—no mountains, nothing, only the endless sky. For the first time he understood why men talked of the desert as a sea.

Twice the
sambuq
's aged engine petered out. Each time it was the boy who got it going. The
naukhuda
sat dreamily at the helm, steering with the toes of his right foot curled round the smooth wood of the rudder bar. A charcoal fire had been burning on the low poop ever since David had come on board, and the big cooking-pot above it eventually produced a mess of rice and mutton, which they ate in their fingers. A small wind stirred the surface of the sea, increased until it filled the sail, and the engine was switched off. In the sudden quiet, the sound of the water sliding past the hull seemed almost loud. The mainsheet was eased out and the
sambuq
took wing. “Ras al Khaima.” The
naukhuda
pointed across the port bow. At the very foot of the mountains and low on the horizon, David made out the dun-coloured shape of houses, the tufts of palms. And shortly after that the coast ahead showed up, low and flat, a shimmering line of dunes.

The sun was barely halfway up the sky when they closed that dune coast. A line of camels marched sedately along the sand of the foreshore, and close under the low cliffs a Land Rover stood parked, a lone figure in Arab clothes standing beside it. He thought then that this was his father and braced himself for that first meeting, wondering what he would be like. But when the
naukhuda
paddled him ashore in the
sambuq
's dugout, it was an Arab who waded into the shallow water to meet them.

Again the difficulty of trying to make himself understood. The Arab's name was Yousif and he spoke a little English. “Coll-onell Sahib not here. You come Saraifa now.” The word Saraifa was shouted at him several times as though he were deaf.

“How far is Saraifa?”

The man stared at him as though he were mad. He was a very dirty-looking individual, his greasy turban trailing one end over his shoulders, a torn and very filthy European jacket worn over his Arab robes. His dark face was smudged with oil; this and the little black moustache below the curved nose gave him a sinister appearance.

David tried again: “Saraifa … ten miles, twenty?” He held up his fingers.

“Saraifa no far in machine of Coll-onell Sahib.” The gap-toothed smile was clearly meant to placate. “Me driver to Coll-onell Sahib. Drive very quick.” That seemed to exhaust his fund of English, for he turned to the
naukhuda
and launched into a guttural flood of conversation. At length the
naukhuda
stepped forward, kissed his hand, and touched it to his heart with a little bow. David gave him one of the notes the Mate had handed him and found his hand held in the other's horny palm whilst the old man made him a long farewell speech.

Then at last he was in the Land Rover and they were roaring along the sand of the foreshore, the driver bent over the wheel like a rider urging on his horse, with the stray end of his filthy turban streaming out behind him. A mile or two further on they left the sea's edge by a camel track that climbed the shallow cliffs. Looking back, David got a last glimpse of the dhow that had brought him to the Arabian shore, and then they were bouncing past the Bedouin caravan he had seen moving along the sands. The camels stared with supercilious gaze, padding through the sand under their mountainous loads. The men, wild and bearded, raised their hands unsmilingly in desert salutation. The silver mountings of their old-fashioned guns winked in the hot sun, and David caught the wicked gleam of
khanjar
knives and the brass of cartridge belts. He was seeing for the first time the desert world that was to be his home.

2.

Enquiries of an Executor

The account of his actual arrival in Arabia was contained in the letter he dispatched to me almost immediately after he had reached Saraifa. For that reason, I suppose, it told me little about the actual meeting between himself and his father. Scribbled in pencil on scraps of paper, it had been written mostly on board the
Emerald Isle
. Except for the final page, it had been completed at a water-hole somewhere in the desert where he and Yousif had spent the night. The final page was nothing more than a hastily written postscript:
Saraifa at last, but I arrived at a bad time
—
my father was with the Sheikh and an oil director and his pilot, and he leaves with them in the morning for Bahrain. He seemed angry at first, but it's all right now, I think. The Sheikh's son, Khalid, is to look after me whilst he is away, and I am to go on a hunting expedition with him to get to know desert ways. My father is a great man here, with a bodyguard and a mud fort or palace where I am writing now. He has only one eye and a black patch over the other, which makes him a bit terrifying at first, and everybody seems afraid of him. Men keep coming into this room for one reason and another, but really to stare at me. It is all very strange
—
but exciting. Thank you again. David
.