Not that everyone merely passed through; many people came just to visit El Oued as well. And there was no doubt about it; it was an extraordinary place. At first, she’d taken it very much for granted. But once someone led her and her husband to the top of the minaret of Sidi Salem.
The sight had taken her breath away.
If you looked down on El Oued — the old town, that is — from the top of the minaret or the new tower in the Hôtel du Souf, what you saw was a fine carpet of thousands and thousands of small yellowish-white domes, ringed by a sea of gigantic golden dunes. The houses stretched into that golden horizon like banks of confectionery at a feast. Every house had not one but dozens of tiny domes, perched on walls which sloped away at bewildering angles. If you walked through the lanes of the old town, every few steps you had to stop and marvel at the brilliant blue borders on the limestone walls; at the little sand-roses encrusted on the houses; the lush, vivid green of the doors. And then, beyond that knotted carpet of domes were the date palms, vast basins of sunken, dusty date palms, only their fronds visible above the sand, doggedly fighting the marching dunes.
But she knew that when she left it would not be the domes or the palms or anything like that that she would see when she tried to remember how it had looked. It would be the dunes. Even now, after two years, whenever she looked at them she was beggared, humbled, all over again, just as she had been the very first time.
These were no ordinary dunes: they were the great towering crescents of the Grand Erg Oriental. When you saw them poised above you, stretching towards the horizon in gigantic scalloped arcs, you could only be silent; they were outside human imagination, a force of nature displaying itself in space, like a typhoon or earthquake rendered palpable and permanent.
There were lots of other things about El Oued — fine points of Saharan architecture and archaeology and anthropology. Erudite visitors temporarily humbled by diarrhoea or dysentery often told her about those things. She would listen to them and then send them on to Dr Mishra. He took an interest in that kind of thing.
As for herself, she preferred people.
Mrs Verma tried to listen as the thin, pale woman chattered excitedly on: … and, then, you know the firm gives him a holiday bonus, so we thought why not? Everyone else buys VCRs and TVs but we already have all those things and we thought, you know, we should see the world, too, especially since we have an ayah and everything. Of course, it was a problem, you know, our house there is so huge and I didn’t know who to leave it with, servants are so unreliable nowadays, but if you think of all that you can nev-er do anything …
But the one thought on Mrs Verma’s mind was: Two years, two years, and not so much as a hint of an Indian tourist; and now, in the space of three short days, just when we need them …
She saw old Hem Narain Mathur standing beside his bookcase, smiling, and this time she smiled triumphantly back.
Raising herself on tiptoe, Mrs Verma stole a look over Kulfi’s shoulder and immediately fell back flat-footed. An indescribably vast woman swathed in some kind of immense black tent was bearing down on her, like a migrating Bedouin camp. She had a baby in her arms, and following close behind her, with his hands behind his back, was a man with a strangely distended head, and huge, staring, watchful eyes.
It occurred to Mrs Verma that this was the husband the pale woman had been talking about all this while. Her first reaction was of mild relief: as soon as she had heard about the husband some subterranean layer of her mind had busied itself with calculating whether this new factor would entail an even more dramatic revision of her casting than she had allowed for when she first saw the woman in the sari. But the moment she saw him she knew there was nothing to worry about: her first choice wasn’t ideal perhaps, but certainly this husband of hers was no contender for the role of mythological hero.
It occurred to her that she had said almost nothing all this while. Scolding herself for her thoughtless selfishness, she reached out, took Kulfi’s hand in her own and smiled. Kulfi broke off in mid-sentence, silenced by the sweetness of her smile. Mrs Verma said softly: I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. My name is Uma Verma, Dr Uma Verma. My husband and I work in the hospital here. He’s in ENT and I’m a microbiologist.
She stopped, for Kulfi was brushing her hands across her eyes, and it didn’t seem as though she had understood much. I do a bit of gynae, too, she added quickly, though it’s not on the contract.
But that didn’t appear to make much of an impression, either, so then she said simply: You’re very, very welcome.
Next moment Zindi was upon her, her heavy-jowled face blazing hope. You’re a doctor? she cried in her guttural Hindi. A real doctor? God be praised.
She thrust Boss into Mrs Verma’s arms. What’s happened to him, Doctor? she said, her voice honed sharp by days of unvoiced worry. What’s happened to him, Doctor? Tell me what’s happened to him.
Mrs Verma felt his forehead with the back of her hand. I’m not in paediatrics, she said apologetically, but I don’t think it’s anything serious. Perhaps he has a little fever. Has he been like this for long?
Ten days, Doctor, Zindi said. Ten whole days.
Ten days! Mrs Verma was shocked. She turned to Kulfi: Why haven’t you taken him to a doctor before this?
There wasn’t any time, Doctor, Zindi cried, the words pouring out of her in a wailing, unthinking wave. There just wasn’t any time. First, we were on the ship and we couldn’t take him to the doctor there, though I did give him a few tablets. Then we had to get off at Tunis. I thought we’d find a doctor there, and actually we were on our way but then suddenly something happened and we had to rush off and that made him worse. Then in Kairouan I thought I’d take him, but we had to rush off again, and after that it was just a mess and all we could think of was how to get to the border …
Kulfi managed to stop her by leaning sideways and giving her elbow a discreet jog. It’s all right now, she said, smiling brightly at Mrs Verma. God has brought us to a doctor.
Mrs Verma ignored her. To me, she said, frowning, it sounds rather as if you were running away from something.
For an unbearably long moment she examined their faces.
Zindi held her breath: the doctor looked as though she had read something on their faces. How? Had the Bird-man’s talons marked them with the scars of the hunted?
Then Mrs Verma shrugged and said briskly: Anyway, he’ll be all right; I don’t think it’s anything serious. Probably just needs a little rest and a tonic.
Yes, Doctor, Zindi said eagerly, that’s what I thought — just a little rest.
You can come and stay with us, of course, Mrs Verma said to Kulfi, ignoring Zindi. We have plenty of room — though it may be a little crowded now, with so many people. But you won’t have any trouble. We could go right now, but we’d better not carry your little boy all the way in the heat. I’ll ask Driss to let you rest inside the café. Then I’ll go on home and see if we can get the hospital’s land-rover to fetch you.
She made her way through the little crowd that had gathered around them into the café and talked urgently to the proprietor in her own argot of French and Arabic. When they followed her in, she smiled: It’s done. The proprietor found them a table next to a fan and went off to fetch a mattress for Boss.
I’d better go now, Mrs Verma said. Would you like to come with me Mrs … Mrs …?
Bose. Mrs Bose.
Oh! exclaimed Mrs Verma in surprise. You’re Bengali, too, then? You speak Hindi very well.