‘What was that?’ Amanda asked.
‘Gunfire from Palestine,’ he answered.
She looked across the placid tepid water. You could swim over there, she thought. You could swim there in less time than it would take you to cross Sydney Harbour.
They invited Hassan to join them for lunch and when it came time for paying the bill, he tactfully excused himself from the table. Amanda left a generous tip, assuming the driver would receive a part of it for recommending the restaurant. On his return, Hassan glanced at the money on the small plate, and smiled at both of them. Amanda was pleased her instincts had been right.
It was late afternoon when they reached the hotel in Wadi Musa. Amanda had booked it over the internet and was delighted by her choice. It was an old stone villa, with an enormous terraced verandah that looked down to the hills of Petra. Their room, it was true, was tiny; also, the edges of the carpets in the lobby were frayed, the garden could have been better maintained, and the tiles on the verandah were cracked and stained. But it was inexpensive, the dining room was grand, and she felt as if she and Daniela were characters in an Agatha Christie novel.
They asked Hassan to join them for a drink and after a moment’s hesitation he agreed.
The women quickly freshened up. Amanda changed her shirt and Daniela wore the bright yellow silk shawl she had bartered for in the bazaar in Cairo.
‘How do I look?’ she asked, turning to show Amanda.
‘You look beautiful,’ she said and kissed her on the lips. And she did. The colour perfectly suited her bronzed Mediterranean skin.
Hassan was standing on the balcony when they came downstairs, looking down across the valleys. At one table an elderly couple were sitting quietly with their beers and at the other end of the patio sat another couple, very much younger, the girl with big streaks of silver in her black hair, the boy in bright red shorts. They were drinking cocktails and laughing loudly.
Hassan walked over when he saw them, and stayed standing while they took their seats. Amanda looked around, spotted a waiter standing at attention at the bar, and gestured for him to come over to their table. He arrived, bowed and smiled, with just a flicker of anxiety evident as his gaze fell upon Hassan.
‘Salaam,’ said Amanda. ‘We’d like to order some drinks.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He looked again at Hassan.
‘Two white wines and. .’ She looked over at Hassan, who spoke in Arabic. The waiter nodded and returned with the glasses of wine and a bottle of German beer.
In the car, at the restaurant and on the beach, conversation between them all had flowed quite easily. But now it seemed they had little to say to one another. Hassan’s English was perfectly adequate but his vocabulary was limited. They had exhausted the topics of family and of work, and it somehow did not seem possible to speak freely about any other topics.
Amanda realised that Hassan had not once alluded to her and Daniela’s relationship, that he had avoided any remark that would lead to a declaration or an explanation. Though it would not have been fair to blame Hassan for that. She and Daniela had avoided the subject too, had not spoken of their home or their life together, of their having raised her son, of having lived, breathed and loved one another for over twenty years. She liked the man; indeed she felt that even though she had only known him half a day, she respected and admired him. His courtesy reminded her of her grandfather, and of Daniela’s Italian father, men whose civility was underscored by a gentle kindness. But inviting him for a drink now felt like a charlatan act, as though they were striving to be some stereotype of the egalitarian Australian abroad. So here they were, awkward, uncomfortable, staring into their drinks.
‘I think they’re from home.’ Daniela was looking over her shoulder to the young couple in the corner. Amanda strained to hear them, but couldn’t catch any of their conversation. Hassan also looked over at the same time as the young man happened to glance their way. He turned so he was looking straight at them, and gave them a wide smile. He said something to the woman, who also turned to look at them.
‘May we join you?’ It wasn’t really a question, as they were on their feet already. He was most certainly Australian. They had been in shade at their table and Amanda had not been able to discern much about their appearance. But now, as they approached, she found herself a little taken aback. They were both in their twenties and she thought them outlandishly dressed for the Middle East. The youth’s scarlet shorts were almost skin tight; his legs were hairless, shaven. The woman was wearing a man’s tuxedo jacket and underneath that a tight Bonds singlet that fully displayed her prominent breasts. Her nipples were clearly visible beneath the fabric. But what disturbed Amanda more than anything was the young man’s T-shirt. It would have once been black but had faded to a wintry grey. On the front was a crude outline in red of a fist atop a circle with a cross beneath it, the symbol for women’s liberation. Amanda herself had worn such a T-shirt in her twenties, when she was first discovering feminism at university, and first fell in love with a woman.
As the boy sat down across from her and they made their introductions, Amanda found she could hardly speak. Noting the direction of her gaze, he laughed loudly and slapped his chest. What a horsey sound, she thought spitefully, what a silly show pony.
‘This was my mother’s,’ he explained, laughing, ‘when she was slumming it at uni.’ He then turned around and motioned ostentatiously to the waiter for another round of drinks.
Amanda looked over at Hassan but his eyes were firmly fixed on the girl’s bosom. He might as well have his tongue hanging out, she thought. It is a wonder he’s not salivating all over the table.
The boy’s name was Frankie and his friend was Keira. They were friends from university where they had studied law, and were travelling together for six months before going back to Melbourne to begin their Articles. On a whim they had caught a plane from Nicosia to Amman, and had come to Petra because Frankie had always wanted to see the ancient city.
‘From when I first saw Raiders of the Lost Ark,’ he explained. ‘I’ve wanted to see it since I was a little boy.’ He sighed contentedly. ‘And it was worth it,’ he continued, then giggled. ‘But alas, I didn’t meet my Harrison Ford.’
There was an uneasy silence, as both Amanda and Daniela quickly glanced across to Hassan. But he gave no indication that he had heard or understood anything of what Frankie had said. Too busy staring at the girl’s tits, fumed Amanda.
‘We’re going to Petra tomorrow,’ Daniela said. ‘I’ve always wanted to see it too.’
‘Another Harrison Ford fan?’
‘Oh, shut up, Frankie.’ Keira tapped Hassan’s packet of Marlboros. ‘May I?’ He nodded. She lit up.
Daniela was explaining how she had become fascinated with Petra when she studied archaeology in first year. ‘That was a long time ago,’ she added.
Keira smiled. ‘How long have you two been together?’
Amanda was mortified. She didn’t know why she felt the flush of humiliation. She was proud of her love for Daniela; her whole life had been lived in the amity of lesbians. She felt wretched for asking the driver to join them. If he hadn’t been there, she and Daniela would have enjoyed the company of the two young people, been grateful for the opportunity to chat and gossip, to talk about home, to openly be a couple after weeks of walking around the Middle East as though they were Victorian spinsters. She envied Frankie his unashamed campness, Keira her fearless sensuality. Nevertheless, nevertheless, could they not shut up?