Eight Months on Ghazzah Street: A Novel

“There was a roadblock on King Khalid Street.”

“Oh yes, Hasan get Breathalyzed?”

“Actually they were just asking for papers. Just took a look at us and waved us through.”

Russel grunted. “Looking for somebody then, aren’t they? Not interested in booze. I don’t know why you’re getting your knickers in a twist, Eric. Jesus, when I think back … those Wine Festivals we used to have, competitions, you know … had them at somebody’s house, Andrew, everything done properly, evening dress … the Ambassador used to come. I remember the Arnotts showing up at one, when the Saudis let them out on bail.” “Yes,” Eric Parsons said, a little more sharply than usual. “But those days are over.”

Daphne spread herself on the sofa, gracious in her silk suit; she dissected a mince pie with a pastry fork, peering closely at every morsel she ate. “Did you make these, Frances dear?” she inquired. To Marion, walking around with stacks of dirty plates, she said, “Don’t you have a dishwasher?”

The Shores walked home. It was the best time to be out: a sky of gold and dusty pink, blossoming lights in the evening streets, and the crackle of the mosque’s loudspeakers, the muezzin’s amplified wail. At weekends, cars jostle nose to tail on the Corniche, half the city turns out to see the sunset; which sometimes occurs with astonishing speed. Inland dark falls more quickly still, the sun dropping behind concrete towers. Night closes in on the city, as if night were its natural milieu.

“Do you remember the garden?” Frances said. Andrew walked along the pavement’s high edge, as if to demonstrate that he was sober; she walked in the road, a foot below him, keeping close to his side. “Do you remember, when we were shopping one night, I pointed it out to you?”

“Can’t say I do. Where was that then?”

She thought about it. “I’m not sure. I’d lost my bearings.”

“That’s not like you.”

“It was a while ago.” They turned into Al-Suror Street. White figures, sharp in the gloom, hurried toward the mosque. “But you must remember, there was a gate, and a light inside, and you could see a lawn. I’ve been wishing we could go past it again.”

“What for?”

“I’d just like to see it.”

He was prepared to gratify her; take her at once, if she liked. But “Could be difficult to find,” he said. “Haven’t we passed it since?”

“We don’t seem to have.”

“Perhaps we were going round a diversion, or something. Road works. Or maybe they’ve just changed the one-way system. They’re always doing that.”

Inside the gate of the Ministry of Pilgrimages’ office, a nightwatchman squatted in a kind of lean-to; lamplight splashed across his dhoti, and showed his downcast face, his hands hanging loose between his knees. Cats squalled, invisible, behind a wall.

“Don’t you remember at all?” she asked.

He put a hand gently on her shoulder for a second as he stepped off the curb. “Why does it matter?”

“Oh, I’ve been thinking about that lawn. About what it might be like to have real grass, instead of Astroturf. When they plant flowers here they look like wax. The trees all seem to be dying. You really didn’t see it? You don’t remember me mentioning it?”

“’Fraid not.” They were at Dunroamin now, outside the metal door in the wall; Andrew fumbled with his keys in the half-light. “Seen any more rats lately?” he asked.

“No. I’ve heard them.”

“Damn.” Andrew dropped his keys on the step. He bent to retrieve them. She looked back over her shoulder, down the empty street. But it was not empty, because outside the computer-supplies shop, with its locked metal shutters, a man in a thobe stood in the shadow of the wall; he was looking away from her, his head turned toward the Medina Road, and in his hand, butt downward toward the pavement, he held a rifle.

“Andrew—”

Her voice died in her throat. She put out a hand, and softly touched his bent back. He straightened up, the keys jangling, and pushed one into the lock. There was a scrape of metal. “Must oil this,” he said. “No use waiting for Raji to do it, might filthy up his best suit.” He pushed open the door, and stepped inside, behind the wall. She glanced back down the street. The man was still there, motionless. “Come on,” Andrew said. She tore her eyes away, and stepped inside; he locked the gate behind her.

Next morning at eleven the doorbell rang. She expected Shams, with some of the leftovers from the dinner for thirty, but instead it was a male visitor—a scented little man, with a bristling, freshly trimmed beard, a thobe, and a briefcase. Under his thobe he had a tight little paunch, which seemed less a part of him than a prized possession; as his eyes passed over her, he patted it with his free hand. “Hello, madam,” he said, and grinned broadly. “I am the landlord. I come to introduce myself.”

“How do you do?” Frances said.

“Can I come in and look at my property?”

“Yes, if you like.”

He stepped in, put down his briefcase, and brought his hands together, with a little double clap. “You have any complaints?” He spoke as if this were not possible; not even imaginable.

“There are rats,” Frances said.

“Outside?” said the landlord swiftly.

“Certainly, outside,” she admitted.