The Sheikh's Son (4 page)

“I thought you said he was your ex-husband. Look, they’ve only been gone a few hours. Perhaps they had a change of plan and decided to go to the cinema or something. If he’s still missing after twenty-four hours, drop by the station and we’ll fill out a full report.”

“Twenty-four hours? By then my son could be anywhere. I’ll never find him.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s all I can suggest.”

Sarah hung up and went downstairs to look for her coat. If the airport and the police weren’t going to do anything, she certainly wasn’t going to sit around and wait for something to happen. She would go out and search for Ali herself.

“Mum, I’ve had the most brilliant time with Dad. It’s been great!”

“Ali! Where on earth have you been?” Sarah grabbed her son in a huge surge of anger, fear, and relief. They were standing on the pavement, just outside the house. Sarah had just locked the door when she saw Ali running up the street, waving at her.

“Do I get a hug as well?” Akbar asked, stretching his arms out wide.

“You bastard! Where the hell have you been with my son? Where did you take him?” Sarah yelled. An elderly woman walking towards them crossed over onto the other side of the street.

“I took him horse riding. This boy will make a fine horseman one day, but he must keep practising. That’s right, isn’t it, Ali? I’m going to take you everyday. It’ll give you strength and build up your muscles.”

“What happened to football practise?”

“Ali can do that anytime. We were on our way to the park when Ali told me that he’d never ridden a horse. You know I was very surprised when he told me that. I can’t believe my son, an Al-Zafir, has never been on a horse. By the time I was his age, I could outrace anyone. But maybe it’s a bit harder here in London. The nearest stables are quite a distance away, you know.” Akbar turned to his son and said, “When you come to the desert, Ali, we’ll ride all day, every day. I’ll give you one of the finest horses in the country. His name is Hawa’a. It means ‘wind.’ He’ll be perfect for you.”

“Mum, can I go—can I?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ali. Why didn’t either of you tell me where you were? I’ve been worried sick!”

Ali’s eyes began to well up. “I left a note on the kitchen table.”

“I knew you’d be concerned, so we came back first and left you a message. Ali used his key. If you let us come in, I can show you.”

Sarah opened the door and they all walked into the house. She went into the kitchen. There on the table, on top of a pile of newspapers, was a piece of paper that looked like it had been torn out of an exercise book. On it, in large round letters were the words, “Daddy’s taking me horse riding. We’ll be back in time for dinner. Love, Ali xxx”

“I’m sorry it’s not very precise. I didn’t think you’d mind,” Akbar said.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see the note,” Sarah replied, feeling a little foolish.

“But why didn’t you see it, Mum? I left it on the middle of the table. We waited at school for you, but you were late, as always.”

“Maybe if you tidied up a bit, you would’ve seen Ali’s message,” Akbar suggested.

“Don’t come in here telling me how to run my life! I do a perfectly good job of raising Ali, but unlike the Al-Zafirs, I don’t employ slaves to do all my housework for me.”

“I think the word you mean is ‘servant,’ not slave. Slavery died out in my grandfather’s time.”

“Well, I don’t have any servants either, so unless either of you are willing to tidy up, the kitchen will stay the way it is.”

“Ali, why don’t we go out and play some football while your mother makes dinner?”

“What?” Sarah couldn’t believe that Akbar thought that she was going to slave away in the kitchen like some kind of 1950s housewife.

“Mum doesn’t really cook,” Ali explained. “I’m surprised you didn’t find that out when you were married to her.”

“So what do you eat, Ali?”

“Mostly stuff out of tins, like tomato soup, and frozen dinners that Mum puts in the microwave. Sometimes, we’ll go out and have a burger or a pizza.”

Akbar looked at Sarah. She could see that he was angry, but she was angry, too. He hadn’t been the single parent all these years.

“A boy needs proper food if he’s to grow up strong and healthy,” he said. However, before Sarah could react, he continued. “Why don’t I take us all out for a big meal? I saw a restaurant on the main street that looked like it served roast lamb. I think there’s a small park on the way. Ali and I could play a bit of football first and then we could all get some food.”

“Yes, please. Can we, Mum?”

Sarah wasn’t going to give in so easily. “Akbar, where’s Ali’s passport?”

“His passport?” Akbar looked surprised. “How would I know?”

They both looked at Ali. Ali looked at the floor.

“Ali, what have you done with it?” his mother asked.

“I wanted to look at it,” Ali mumbled. “I wanted to see if it had anything about Dad in it.”

“What did you want to know about me?” Akbar knelt so that he was face to face with his son.

“I wanted to know why Mum left you and why you didn’t come with us to England.”

“I wanted to come very much. It’s taken me many years to find your mother and also to find you, but I did it. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but why did Mum go and why didn’t she tell you where we were?”

“I think you better ask your mother that.”

They both looked up at Sarah. However, she didn’t reply. She couldn’t tell her nine-year-old son that his father had taken another woman right in front of her and that the woman had flaunted it in front of everybody. Every time Akbar was near, Rasha would walk past, wiggling her hips and casting long, loving glances at him with her large dark eyes, heavily outlined in black kohl. Later, when Ali was out of earshot, she would confront Akbar about it.

“Ali, go and get me your passport so I can put it where it’s safe,” she instructed, “and get ready to go to the park. There’s still time to play a quick game of football before we eat.”

When the three of them reached the nearby park, Sarah saw that the woman with the baby and little girl had gone, only to be replaced by four boys about Ali’s age, who were messing about on the climbing frame. One of them was Hassan, the boy who called Ali names at school.

Ali tugged on his mother’s coat sleeve. “I don’t feel like playing football anymore. Let’s go to the restaurant.”

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea,” Sarah agreed.

“Nonsense! A quick game of football will build up our appetites.” Akbar took Ali’s hand and tried to lead him into the park.

The boys on the climbing frame got down and stood in a row, staring at them.

 “Look! It’s half-breed Ali!” one of the bigger boys shouted.

“Mum?”

Sarah could see the pleading look in Ali’s eyes. She went to Akbar and quietly explained that the boys in the park had given Ali some problems at school.

Akbar looked shocked. He stood to his full height of more than six feet and grabbed the football off Ali. “Don’t worry, my son, I’ll soon sort this out.” And he marched directly towards the boy who called Ali names.

Ali wolfed down another portion of roasted garlic lamb and helped himself to some more rice.

“Eat, Ali. You’ll never be able to rule over the Al-Zafirs if you aren’t strong,” his father said. He, too, spooned more food onto his plate, two beef kebabs and some roast chicken.

“Dad, will I be a sheikh one day like you?”

“Of course! You’re my son.”

Sarah wanted to ask about Rasha’s son, but she was afraid of spoiling the festive mood at the table. They were sitting at a local restaurant that specialised in Arabic food and catered to the large Middle Eastern community that lived in that part of London. Akbar had ordered huge amounts off the menu and although Sarah had already finished eating a while back, the waiter continued to serve them several more plates of meat, rice, and salad.

“Sheikh Akbar Al-Zafir!” a middle-aged man called out from another table on the other side of the room. Sarah wasn’t sure whether she imagined it, but it seemed as if the whole restaurant froze.

Akbar stood and walked to the man who said his name. Soon there was a lot of backslapping, laughing, and rising of glasses at the other table, and it wasn’t long before half of the restaurant seemed to join in.

“Everyone, you must meet my son!” Akbar shouted. He came and took Ali to the other side of the restaurant, where a group of more than twenty men were now chatting excitedly. They pushed several tables together and called out for more drinks.

Sarah was left sitting on her own at a table covered in half-eaten food. She picked at a chicken leg. She knew that as a female, she shouldn’t join a group of Arabic men. When they first entered the restaurant, the waiter seated them at the back, in a section reserved for families. The only other family there was a group of six people, only one of which was a woman, and she was completely covered from head to foot. Every time she wanted to eat something, she lifted her black veil just a fraction and surreptitiously slipped a piece of food under it.

At the front of the restaurant, she could see Akbar proudly showing off his son to the other men as waiters rushed around, serving more food and thick, black coffee. Sarah was exhausted after the day’s events, but she was willing to sit and wait for a little bit while Akbar talked to his friends. She guessed that some of them were old acquaintances from Yazan and it was only fair to give him the chance to catch up with them. Ali looked thrilled to be sitting there next to his father, who was obviously the focus of so much attention and adulation from the other men. Sarah didn’t recognise most of them, but there were a few that she knew, including Hassan’s dad, and a couple of others who brought their female relatives to the clinic where she worked.

Hassan’s dad was one of the ones making the most fuss over Akbar and Ali, and Sarah wondered whether he’d already heard about what just happened at the park between Akbar, Hassan, and the other boys.

Akbar had walked to the four boys and started doing the most amazing football tricks. It wasn’t long before he was showing the boys how to do them and by the time they left the park, Akbar, Ali, and Hassan had come out victorious from a game of three-aside football.

“You never told me that you had a cool dad, Ali,” Hassan said.

“Your dad’s pretty cool, too,” Ali replied. “He lets you eat all the chocolate you want from his shop.”

“Bring your dad again tomorrow and he can teach us a few more of his tricks,” one of the other boys said. All the boys agreed that was a good idea and they parted ways with the promise to meet up again the next afternoon.

“That was amazing, Dad! None of the other dads can play like that. Where did you learn?” Ali asked his father as they walked to the restaurant.

“When I was a boy, there were no computer games or TV. We spent our time outside playing football, riding horses, and racing camels.”

Sarah smiled. She could imagine Akbar as a child, running around the camp, playing with the other Bedouin children, getting in the way of his mother, Fatima. She had generally got on well with her mother-in-law. One of the many reasons why she thought about returning to Yazan was to see her again as she didn’t have the chance to say goodbye to her when she walked out on Akbar.

“How’s your mother?” she asked.

“She’s still telling me what to do and bossing everyone about!” He laughed. “My mother would love you, Ali. She would spoil you with sweets and dates, and at night she would tell you scary stories about ghosts and genies.”

Sarah remembered Fatima’s stories about spirits, or
jinn
as she called them. Fatima was a strong believer in the supernatural and many of the illnesses amongst the Al-Zafirs had been put down to the actions of malevolent spirits until Sarah showed them that they were just common ailments that could be easily cured with paracetamol or a simple dose of antibiotics.

“Mum, when can I meet my grandmother? When can we go to Yazan?”

“I don’t know, Ali.”

“We almost went once,” Ali said to his dad. “Mum took me to the airport and asked the lady for tickets, but there weren’t any, so we went home and Mum locked herself in her bedroom and cried all afternoon. She used to cry a lot when I was little, but she doesn’t do it so much now.”

Akbar looked at Sarah. He put his hand on her arm. She could feel the strength of his touch through the thick wool of her coat. However, she couldn’t meet his eyes. If she looked at him, it would only tell him how much she’d missed him all these years and how much she still loved him.

“Ali, button up your coat,” she said to change to subject. “You’ll catch a cold.”

Akbar didn’t say anything and they walked on in silence until they reached the restaurant.

Sarah picked up another chicken leg and took a small bite. It was getting late and Ali had school in the morning. However, it wasn’t everyday that Ali had the chance to sit with his father and be the centre of attention. She would give them another fifteen minutes and then she would go and get him. She knew it wasn’t acceptable in Arabic culture for a woman to interrupt a group of men, but this was London, and Ali was her son. However, just a few minutes later, Akbar came back to the table where she was sitting alone.