Annie stood, watching her brother.
Gabriel smiled. There was something in her he adored. Simplicity, perhaps; the way she got things right. He liked Rolf too, a pragmatic artist twelve years her senior.
She did not return his smile. She said, “Funny, you look like the same person you were two months ago.”
It cut right through. So this was how it was going to be.
She went into the kitchen. “Tea?”
“Great, thanks. Mam gave me some for you. Tea, I mean. Bags and . . . well, leaves.”
“Rolf, would you show Gabriel his room?”
Gabriel followed his brother-in-law up a narrow whitewashed stairwell to a room that stood alone on the top floor. “A little tight,” said Rolf, “but cooler in the hot weather. It gets the sea breeze.”
“It’s perfect. Thanks.”
Rolf seemed on the point of saying something. Gabriel hoped he wouldn’t. He was only just off the plane, for Christ’s sake. Couldn’t they keep the recriminations until later? With a blink, Rolf seemed to reach the same conclusion. “Bathroom one floor down, I’m afraid. Come down when you’re ready.”
Gabriel moved backward to the bed and sat on its hard surface. His hands were trembling. In his own sister’s house, he was shaking. What had he hoped for? Compassion? Yes, a little. He scratched his forehead, entertained, almost, by his own narcissism, because only undiluted ego could have allowed him to expect open arms and a shoulder to lean on. And he was fearful now, because if Annie could not forgive him, no one ever would.
He had a quick shower, changed into lighter clothes, and went downstairs. Rolf and Annie were in another room—long and quite formal, with a blood-red hue about it, set off by dark red rugs and drapes. The seating, which ran along the wall, was low and soft and covered in cushions and bolsters.
“Nice,” he said.
“This is the diwan,” said Annie. “We use it all the time, but in traditional houses it’s like the reception room, used for special occasions.”
“Ah, like the Sunday room at home. Never used except when the priest calls.”
They were sitting rather stiffly in front of a tray (thermos jug, three glasses, bread and fruit—he was hungry suddenly), looking like stern parents who had discovered their teenager had been smoking pot in his room.
Gabriel tried to lighten the mood. “You two look like you’re about to give me a major telling-off.”
Annie leaned forward to pour. “What good would that do?”
“Might make you feel better.” He sat down.
“You think so?” she said, one eyebrow arched, her eyes on the stream of urine-colored liquid flowing from the jug.
They sipped their tea as Gabriel looked around at their accumulated artifacts: Eastern rugs, heavy timber chests, daggers with adorned silver hilts. How easily Annie wore this life, he thought. He envied her. He wished he’d done it. Got out. Away. Before he’d had to.
The tea was served in the small glasses and bitter without milk. He was a man who enjoyed a great wallop of milk in his tea, but he would get used to it, just as he must get used to other things. Like the light—so very bright, white almost, and cheering, as it shone through windows high in the wall. Gabriel felt the change of air, of country and continent, in his blood, which already seemed to be flowing thinner through his veins. “So this is an old-fashioned sultanate, yeah?” he asked. “And the sultan deposed his own father?”
Rolf nodded. “Twelve years ago, in 1970.”
“Sounds pretty cheeky. There’s no dissent?”
“He’s doing a lot for the country,” said Rolf. “There were nine schools in 1970, but schools and hospitals are opening every week now, and transport is improving, with new roads heading out in every direction. So of course he’s popular, but he’s low-key.”
Annie was nibbling on a corner of bread—nervously, Gabriel realized. Christ.
Rolf cleared his throat and grasped at conversational straws. “So, umm, you’ve escaped the deep freeze.”
Gabriel nodded. “That’s long over.”
Annie’s curiosity dived around her rectitude, like a rugby player getting over the line. “What was it like?”
“Bloody cold is what it was like. We didn’t have the snow they had in Dublin, but even in Cork people struggled to get about. Ice everywhere.” He wanted to add, Just like there is right here.
“Sandra wrote and said there was a lovely atmosphere, everyone helping out and being cheerful and stuff.”
“Yeah, I cleared quite a few driveways.”
And that was all it took for Annie to swerve right back into disapproval. “I should hope so. But doing good deeds for the neighbors won’t change anything.”
“Annie,” Rolf said quietly.
Gabriel turned to him with a sheepish glance. “Thanks, Rolf, for . . . fixing this. I hope it wasn’t too much hassle getting me that certificate thing.”
His brother-in-law lifted, then dropped one shoulder in a half-shrug.
“What does it mean—a ‘No Objection Certificate’?”
“It’s a type of visa. Oman is loosening up a bit, but you still have to be sponsored by an employer to get in.”
“So how did you pull it off? Do I have to work for someone?”
Rolf shook his head. “I explained your—our—circumstances to a well-connected friend of mine, Rashid al-Suwaidi. He owns an import‒export company and has other interests. He organized the paperwork.”
“Did you have to . . .”
Rolf gave him the hard eye.
“You know—baksheesh, or whatever it’s called.”
“Bribe him, you mean? He’s a friend, Gabriel. He did it for us. So for God’s sake don’t make any trouble for him.”
Gabriel raised his hands in apology.
Rolf stood up. “Baksheesh! Is that the extent of your
