“Okay, let’s say it’s been there for months.”
“You must be wrong.”
“Look,” he said mildly, “I have an eye for a building, right? What you see there may not be a distinguished example of modern architecture, but I’m not likely to mix it up with anything else. Do me a favor.”
She didn’t answer; unclipped her seat belt so that she could turn round properly, craning her neck.
“We can go back if you like. What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong.” She felt enraged; why should he speak to her as if she were simpleminded? “When I last saw that plot there was a garden there. They had a lawn. It was the only lawn I ever saw. I told you about it. Now there’s a building. How can it have got there? How can it have got there without my noticing?”
“But we come this way twice a week.” His bewilderment was plain, she heard it in his voice. “It didn’t spring up overnight. They finished it before Christmas.”
“How could they? How could they?”
“I’ll turn round, so that you can have another look. Do a U-ey, as Jeff puts it.”
“That’s all right,” she said dully. “You needn’t.”
“I want you to be satisfied.”
He turned as soon as he could, drove slowly past the gates again. The garden had gone, and the ramshackle villa with its tin roof; the hanging lamp had gone, and the swaying light with its dappled flurry of moths’ wings. “Don’t worry,” he said, “there are places I passed in my first few weeks in Jeddah that I could swear I’ve never seen since, and yet they must be there, I know they must, it’s just that you’re coming at them from a different angle. And of course, you have to keep your eyes on the road.”
“I don’t.”
“No, but you must have lost your bearings. This town changes fast.”
Who would have believed it? That they could put up a five-story building, while your back was turned, while your attention was elsewhere? She has been looking at the external city; but the internal city is more important, the one that you construct inside your head. That is where the edifice of possibility grows, and grows without your knowledge; it is subject to no planner’s control.
They pulled up outside Dunroamin. “Fairfax is coming in a couple of days,” Andrew said. “He really is, this time. I spoke to him on the phone. He’s got his visa. I’m collecting him at the airport.” He got out, locked his door, opened the boot and pulled out a couple of the big brown bags which held their groceries. “Can I ask him over for an evening?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Will it be all right? Only you seem so distracted, Fran.”
“I want to meet him. I’ve been looking forward to it.”
She picked up one of the bags herself, holding it in her arms like a heavy child. Andrew wedged a bag against the outside wall, propping it up with his knee while he fumbled for the right key; but she pushed the metal gate with her foot, and said, “Look, it’s open.”
“Shouldn’t be,” Andrew said. “We’re supposed to keep the place secure.”
The front gate was ajar. “Perhaps Raji is just dashing in and out,” she said.
Andrew let them into the flat. As soon as he opened the door, she knew that something was wrong. Andrew switched on the light. He stood, staring at the mess, and then lowered the bags of groceries carefully to the floor. “We’ve been done over,” he said. “Okay, let’s not panic, leave everything just where it is and we’ll have a look.”
They had been burglarized before, in Africa; so often, so routinely, that Andrew was calm, summoning all the old feelings: a moderate, suitable annoyance, a measure of resignation, a calm, impervious front. But Frances felt that it was not something you got used to. She ran from room to room, sweeping each one with a glance. The wardrobe gaped open; some of their clothes had been dragged from the hangers, flung about the room. Drawers were pulled out. “Our camera’s gone,” she said.
“Let’s check the cash, that’s the first thing.”
They still had their housekeeping money. A bundle of it nested securely in its place underneath the dressing table; it had not been a convenient arrangement, lifting the furniture around every few days, but it had served its purpose. “I thought my African habits were overcautious,” Andrew said. “But seemingly not.” Casually, he heaved the dressing table back into place. “Found the rest?”
She had six five-hundred-riyal notes, crisp new purple ones, inside the Holy Koran. “Good girl,” Andrew said. “Although you never know if thieves can read, do you?”
“Are we going to get the police?”
He looked around the living room. It was obvious how the burglars had got in. They had come through the big window with its sliding panel; the length of wood that should have blocked the track lay on the carpet. It had been removed from the inside. “You forgot to put it back,” Andrew said. He saw her face. “I’m not blaming you. I know you want a breath of air sometimes. I can understand how it happened.”
“If I want air I go to the roof. I didn’t take the wood out.”
“You must have. Who else could it have been?”
“No one.”
“But look.” He held it up. “Here it is. It didn’t jump out by itself.”
“I don’t know how it happened.”
