The Sheik Retold(9)

My thoughts drifted back to the present. Aubrey and his wife-hunt seemed singularly uninteresting compared to the caravan that approached. It had been visible for a long time in the distance but now drew near. I reined in to watch the long line of slow, lurching camels. The great beasts, with their disdainful tread and long, swaying necks, never failed to hold my interest. The bales on their backs looked heavy. There were also merchants and a motley crowd of followers—some on lean little donkeys and others on foot. Following them was an armed guard of mounted men and at the end of this parade were huddled figures that I knew must be women—swathed and shapeless, with a multitude of coverings. The contrast between them and me was almost ridiculous.

I was stifled even to look at them.

I wondered what their lives were like, if they ever rebelled against the drudgery and restrictions that were imposed upon them, if they ever longed for the freedom that I had always taken for granted—that I even now reveled in. The very notion of binding myself to the will and pleasure of a man, one who had the unquestionable right to demand obedience and the strength to enforce it, revolted me. I considered the lives they led with a shiver of revulsion. That women would willingly submit themselves bodily to the degrading intimacy and tolerate the fettered existence of married life filled me with horror and disgust. Marriage was bad enough for a Western woman, but this lot—unconsidered, disregarded, and reduced to the level of animals—were no better than slaves.

I spurred my horse in a fierce desire to get away, to forget such lives existed.

Mustafa Ali had dismounted and was deep in conversation with the chief of the armed guard. I did not halt but called out to him as I cantered past. I rode on, unmindful of my escort, who had also stopped to speak with the traders. My horse was fleet, and it was some time, probably several miles, before they caught up with me.

My mount was truly an exceptional beast, which had weighed heavily in the guide's favor when he had brought it for my inspection. He had been enthusiastic with his praise, but as volubly vague about the animal’s history, which made me suspect it had been stolen. Then again, the creature's antecedents were no business of mine. After all the jades I had seen, I was only too delighted to have use of a decent horse.

"Mademoiselle is not interested in the caravan?" Mustafa Ali asked with a look of annoyance when he caught up with me.

"No. Not in the least," I answered frankly. I then asked him for some details connected with my expedition. After giving the required information, he volunteered some anecdotes relating to various well-known people whom he had guided in the desert. As we rode on, I made occasional queries about the country through which we passed.

I studied him intently as he spoke to me in easy and fluid French. He appeared middle aged, though it was difficult to judge. The thick, peaked beard hid both his mouth and chin and probably made him look older than he really was. I noticed that his eyes often wavered from mine, and it occurred to me that they had not seemed nearly so shifty in Biskra when I had engaged him. The thought was a bit unsettling, but I denied my instinct and attached no great importance to it—or to the man himself. In my experience, men were more easily judged by their mouths than their eyes anyway.

Having quickly grown bored with the guide's company, I was only too relieved when we arrived at an oasis for a midday halt. A bit of shade and respite would be delightful after hours in the burning sun. I swung to the ground, took off my heavy helmet, and tossed it to the man behind me, along with my horse's reins. I then knelt beside the pool and stuck my head in the cool water. When I came up I gave myself a shake, allowing the water to drip down my face and neck while the faint breeze helped to cool my hot head.

Having always been possessed of a robust appetite, I was famished and took great interest in laying out our lunch from the large and daintily packed tiffin basket Stephens had prepared. Stephens was an artist with a picnic basket and his offerings were as sumptuous to the palate as to the eye. My mouth watered at the saffron and raisin couscous adorned with fresh mint that I accompanied with a glass of burgundy. I followed the main course with fresh, sweet dates. Yes, I sighed after finishing my meal. I would miss Stephens.

After satisfying my stomach, I propped against a palm tree and lit a cigarette while a lizard stared at me from his perch on a nearby rock. With my arms clasped around my knees, I settled back contentedly to overlook the desert, at perfect peace in the noontime hush. Not a breath of wind stirred the tops of the palms. The men were lying asleep with cloaks drawn over their heads, but I had no desire to sleep. I refused to lose a minute of my enjoyment in rest that I didn't require. I'd always lived this way, right up to the minute, extracting from each one the last ounce of pleasure.

I threw my cigarette butt at the lizard and laughed at its precipitant flight. It never occurred to me then, that my happiness was all due to my wealth, that my money alone enabled me to indulge my every whim, and that without it, I would have no means to gratify my cravings. No, I took it all completely for granted, paying no more heed to my riches than I did to my looks.

Although a vast fortune had recently come into my possession, I begrudged every second I had to waste in the library to get it, when I longed to be elsewhere. The entire business connected with my coming-of-age was a wearisome but necessary evil that I'd desired to get through as expeditiously as possible and with as little pomp as the old family lawyer would allow. The formal and pedantic congratulations with which the lawyer concluded seemed very stupid and uninteresting to me. I didn't care about money. It was nothing to me but a means to a long-awaited end—that of my independence.