“Yes, but I expect that was when they had to herd camels and make their own tents.”
“Yeah,” Andrew said. “In the days when all the Arabs were happy and God-fearing, when every desert day was mini-paradise and there was no crime and no disease, before the wicked West came along and drilled for oil and gave them all that rotten rotten money.” He entered the living room and threw himself into one of the many chairs. Even the experimental draft seemed to have gone to his head. He looked restless, reckless. A friend in Africa had once said, “Whenever I see Andrew and he’s had a drink, I can always tell. He reminds me of that expression ‘a bull in a china shop.’”
She handed him her glass.
The wine, poured out, was a soft raspberry red; a sediment was appearing at the bottom of the jug.
Yasmin said, “You are looking pale.”
“Oh … I’m always pale.”
“Late nights?”
“Not really. We’re usually in bed by eleven. Andrew gets up at six, he’s out of the house by six-thirty.”
“Our guests don’t disturb you, I hope? Leaving so late?” Yasmin sighed. It was becoming a habit with her. “You think I’m a slave to the kitchen now, but wait till Raji’s mother comes. Go through, Frances, sit down, I will make us some herb tea.”
Raji, like Abdul Nasr, never left for his office before midmorning; but then he would work through the early evening, and entertain his guests into the small hours. Most of the guests were official ones, people to whom he was obliged; or people to whom he was extending patronage. Then there were nights when he would be entertained elsewhere: all-male occasions. “We never sit down to dinner together,” Yasmin said. “I envy you, Frances. Our life is not so simple.”
Frances trailed into the living room and flopped into a brocade armchair. She knew that Yasmin did not envy her at all. She still felt weak and sick, the aftermath of their night’s drinking. Andrew said that perhaps they would have to change their recipe. Maybe there were people around who brought a little more finesse to the business than Jeff Pollard.
“Yasmin,” she said, as her neighbor brought in the tray, “I was reading this thing in the newspaper.”
“Oh yes?” Yasmin arranged the cups and saucers—a delicate clink of china, and the more decisive clink of her bracelets. Frances counted them: eight today. “Frances, remind me, I have got for you a translation of the Holy Koran. Perhaps this will answer some of your questions. You must understand that the very language of the Holy Koran is sacred, and so this Penguin Book is just a little lacking the nuances.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Now,” she passed a cup, “you wanted to ask me?”
“Well, I’m sorry to bring this up, I know it’s only what ignorant Westerners are always asking, but—”
“Oh yes.” Yasmin nodded, almost brusque. “I saw that dreadful case too. I thought it would be troubling you.”
“You’re a mind reader.”
“Not really.” Yasmin smiled faintly. She too looked tired and pale. “It’s just that, as you say, all Westerners want to know the same thing. I remember even when I lived in St. John’s Wood, I was asked questions on this point.”
“You see, I’ve been trying not to be self-righteous about it, because we had capital punishment in England until quite recently.” Yasmin nodded. She raised her cup to her lips. “But only for murder. The woman in Mecca wasn’t accused of murder. Only of adultery.”
“Don’t let the tea get cold,” Yasmin said. “You see, Frances, although we may feel pity for someone, no one can reduce the punishments that Allah has laid down.”
“But if there was a case where no one was harmed, and there was no violence? Yasmin, surely these things must happen, sometimes, and people aren’t found out?”
“I am sure they happen. When they come to light the punishment must be always the same, but it is much better if the need does not arise. The Prophet says that if you make some slip you should try to keep it secret, you see, so that it doesn’t scandalize other people, and then you should try to do better in the future, and hope Allah will forgive you.”
“I see, so it’s not a question of what you do, it’s whether you’re found out or not.”
“I think you are twisting my words just a little, Frances.”
“That’s not real religion, is it? It’s just law enforcement. Keeping people in a state of fear doesn’t make them good people. You’re just controlling their actions.”
“Surely controlling actions is enough,” Yasmin murmured. “Who can look into the heart? Let me tell you, there are safeguards. There must be four male witnesses to the crime …”
“Male?”
“You cannot have the testimony of women, when it is a question of adultery.”
“Why not?”
“Think what women will do to each other! Think what they will say! Four witnesses, Frances, and they must have seen with their own eyes.”
“That can’t happen very often.”
“This is what I am telling you.”
“And yet there are convictions?”
“There can be a confession, of course.”
