'Where? She tried the doctors in her own country and they sent her here.'
'Then say nothing. Don't make her lose hope.'
As he said this he was pressing down with his hands on the ground in preparation for rising, so I stood up quickly and took hold of his hand to help him. Salmawi saw us, hurried over, grasped the sheikh by his forearms as though embracing him and held him thus until he had stood him on his feet.
'Thank you, Salmawi,' said Sheikh Yahya. 'Try to pass by tomorrow and I may be able to give you new medicines for the commissioner's house.'
He held out his hand and shook mine with a firm grip, despite his age, and then shook hands with Salmawi. Then he turned around, leaning on his stick, and disappeared among the trees of his garden.
On our way out, I asked Salmawi, 'Why did you address the sheikh as "Master", and why did that anger him?'
Salmawi answered excitedly, 'He's the best person I've met in this oasis, Excellency. Did Your Excellency note that he only saw the young lady for a few moments, yet he took an interest in her treatment and sent her the new medicines even though he was angry with…'
He fell silent, but I understood what he wanted to say.
On the way back, Salmawi said in his tremulous, rough voice that always made me think that he was on the verge of tears, 'The young lady too, Your Excellency. You didn't see how she was in the caravan. Everyone…'
I said sharply, 'You told me that before, Corporal. Don't talk about her as though she's going to die!'
Enough lamentation!
And I said to myself, 'Alas for me were she indeed to die!'
17. Catherine
Another cloudy morning.
There will be a little warmth for Fiona and much dejection in my heart, which I will have to subdue, though I can't read now in this weak light. If I want to help Fiona, I have to help myself. I have said before, I will not allow this oasis to defeat me. A time will come when I shall go out on my own, even if it costs me my life, just as Maleeka went out knowing she would pay the price. Whenever I try to put her out of my mind, something occurs to bring her back to me. If she doesn't pursue me in my dreams, something else happens. Everything that happens in the oasis reminds me of her, and Mahmoud won't let me forget. He took me by surprise when he told me she was a relative of Sheikh Yahya's and of the sheikh's love for her. He spoke as though he were attacking me as he passed on to me what the sheikh had said about Maleeka's coming to our house to seek our friendship, or perhaps just mine.
He wants me to feel ashamed of myself because I struck her and drove her away. I reminded him once more that it was he who made a spectacle of her and threw her out on to the public highway, so what fault was it of mine? He wasn't convinced. Even more, he wants me to recognize this sheikh as a saint and proclaim his virtue day and night because, despite what we did to his niece, he sends medicines and herbs to Fiona to help her.
What can I tell him? It's true that every now and then he sends herbs for Fiona to take, steeped in water or boiled in the morning or evening, and he sends oils of various colours for her to rub on her neck or chest, along with precise instructions. But what's the result of all that? Each time Fiona says that her health has improved thanks to the latest treatment she's tried, and that it needs time, that's all.
I, though, see no improvement from these primitive medicines. Her pallor and thinness increase day by day. The only thing that's changed is that the bouts of coughing come at less frequent intervals, though they are much more intense than before, as though all that these medicines do is to suppress the cough in the chest until the scattered crises are gathered into one violent crisis that makes her face turn blue and her eyes bulge, filling me with terror. She doesn't complain but I can see for myself. So what has this sheikh done that we have to thank him for?
At least he's trying, Catherine, as is this woman Zubeida. Their generosity does not, however, extend to me. The woman brought a present of dates and almonds for Fiona and I could, with difficulty, understand the few words of Arabic interspersed in her speech, but she had no difficulty communicating with my sister, who doesn't know Arabic, through signs and sounds. I was astonished to hear Fiona using, in her conversation with Zubeida, Siwan words and expressions that she'd learnt from her. I try to do as she does, for language is my field. I get close to them and listen to their conversation, but the crafty old woman rarely says anything to me directly. What hurts me more is that she avoids looking at me. Nevertheless, I have written down some of the words that I've been able to extract from their talk. I smiled when I thought of her first visit to us, when we looked at her in bewilderment as we tried to understand. She would cup her hands and move them as though using them to remove something while pointing to the ground and saying in Arabic, 'Go down! Go down!' It was only later, from Mahmoud, that we heard about the treatment by burial in hot sand. But still, the heat that killed us in the past few months now refuses to return.
Fiona greatly loves this brown old woman with her wrinkled face, who puts copious amounts of kohl around her narrow eyes. She seems happy to have her there whenever she talks to her. She astonished me when Zubeida first started coming to our house by taking hold of her hand and looking in wonder at the henna with which she stains her palms. Then she asked her in Siwan, neesh? ('and me?'). I was amazed that Fiona would be interested in such a thing in her deteriorating condition, but Zubeida understood and agreed immediately. The following day, it wasn't just Fiona's palms which were stained, she also tattooed with henna the back of her hands with spiral lines that looked like little branches with leaves and a small bird in the middle. Fiona was very proud as she spread out her hands with her broad smile to show the design to me and Mahmoud.
So long as it makes her happy!
So long as it makes them both happy for Zubeida to visit our house day after day! If one of her grandsons doesn't accompany her, she comes on her own, riding her donkey and always bringing gifts for Fiona. At the end of each visit, though, she points to the sky and the pallid sun and slaps palm against palm in a gesture of resignation. So we must wait for the heat, then.
Is Mahmoud up to the wait?
He too grows thinner by the day. He always used to have an appetite, he was virtually a glutton, but since Fiona's arrival he hasn't been able to finish his meals. I see him at table with his head bent so that he doesn't have to look at her face, but he swallows his food with difficulty, as though he has something in his throat. He has completely stopped drinking too — not even one glass in the evening as was his habit when things were going well for him. Is he seeking sainthood too? He has become calm and meek, which has relieved me of the madness of his changing moods. And in the last two days, I've noticed that his hand shakes. I understand and I wish I could
tell him that you cannot escape loving her by running away from her face.
I cannot forget the night he entered the house more miserable and downcast than I had ever seen him, and looking as though he were about to cry. He took me aside and asked me, swallowing, if it wouldn't be preferable for us to send Fiona back to Alexandria or Cairo to seek better treatment. I understood immediately that it was another attempt to flee, by sending her far from his gaze. I said quietly that I agreed totally, but did he think that Fiona's condition permitted travel in a caravan and having to withstand the cold nights of the desert? It would be a death sentence. The question 'For whom?' escaped from him in a tremulous voice. I ignored the slip of the tongue and said, 'Let's wait till the weather improves.' I watched joy struggling with despair in his face as he said, with resignation, 'Let's wait.' At that moment I almost felt pity for him, as I do when he tosses and turns in bed, sleepless for most of the night and then pursued by nightmares from which he wakes in terror. Despite this, he's a complete stranger to me now, as though we had never been man and wife.