words fast and thick, their staccato rhythm both strange and familiar. He motioned to where Mason was deep in conversation with Burt Cane. “I can see we’re going to have to loosen that guy up.”
Mason worked his way to our table, shaking hands as he came. When he saw me with the cigarette in my hand and hiked an eyebrow, I smiled and took another drag. Ruthie introduced him to Lucky, and the two men began discussing their jobs as drilling foremen, Lucky over a crew of Arabs in the desert, Mason a new recruit on the sea—and then moved easily into banter about the recent formation of the New Orleans Saints. I leaned in closer to Ruthie, nodded to where the man with the camera stood near the door as though trying to steal away.
“He looks like a pirate,” I said.
Ruthie followed my eyes. “Carlo Leoni? He’s Aramco’s official photographer,” she said, then in a low whisper, “and gigolo.”
“Here?” I asked, my mouth gone slack.
“Where better?” Ruthie gave a knowing smile. “Boredom is the desire for desires, you know.” When Mason turned our way, she drew back. “Let’s have lunch on Monday,” she said. “I’m dying to see what you’ve done with the place.”
I hesitated, wondering whether I had done anything at all with the place and what I would fix for our meal. I’d never learned to make the little sandwiches Houston wives favored, cucumberssliced paper-thin, cold soup alongside. Each luncheon, each tea, I’d find myself reaching for the salt, spooning more sugar, just to taste something. I’d go home, put on a big pot of brown beans, boil up a ham bone, cut in a slab of bacon, bake cornbread in a cast-iron skillet, sheen it with lard. If it was cucumber I wanted, then chunks of it with rings of sweet onion, floated in vinegar and oil, doused with salt.
“I’ll bring dessert,” Ruthie said, and was off to chat with a group of wives. I missed her immediately.
Abdullah waited for us after the meeting, leaning against the Land Cruiser, talking with a few other Arab men, who lowered their gazes and moved away as we approached. I stopped until Mason touched my arm.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“They make me feel so strange,” I whispered, “like I’m poison or something.”
He lifted his shoulders. “I think they do it out of respect.”
I forced a smile for Abdullah as I ducked into the back of the Land Cruiser. I looked around at the other women coming from the building, most dressed in light summer clothing that showed their arms and legs, and wondered whether the Arab men who worked inside the compound believed themselves in heaven or in hell. I flapped my program against the heat, imagining that Abdullah had been talking about me. Mason sat quiet, lost in thought, but Abdullah motioned to the horizon as though he could see something brewing in the clear blue sky.
“Tonight, there will be one last rain,” he said.
“In the desert?” I asked. “How do you know?”
“Because I am Bedu,” he said, and looked at me in the rearview. “You will learn.” I recognized a hint of teasing and grinned back until Mason began quizzing him on the correct pronunciation and meaning of Arabic phrases—the early salutation
morning of light
, the night’s greeting
evening of goodness
. I listened without hearing, Abdullah’s promise still ringing in my ears.
Back home, the rooms were redolent of … what? Something I had never smelled before. Yash greeted us at the door. “Dinner at six,
memsahib
.”
I followed him into the kitchen. “Ruthie Doucet is coming for lunch on Monday,” I said.
“Perhaps I will make a cold carrot soup,” he said.
“You will?”
He lifted his eyes at my surprise. “I am your houseboy and your cook,” he said. “I prepare your meals, clean your rooms, do your laundry, and run your errands.” He saw the look on my face and allowed a thin smile. “You will get used to it, believe me.”
“Ruthie says she will bring
Mason worked his way to our table, shaking hands as he came. When he saw me with the cigarette in my hand and hiked an eyebrow, I smiled and took another drag. Ruthie introduced him to Lucky, and the two men began discussing their jobs as drilling foremen, Lucky over a crew of Arabs in the desert, Mason a new recruit on the sea—and then moved easily into banter about the recent formation of the New Orleans Saints. I leaned in closer to Ruthie, nodded to where the man with the camera stood near the door as though trying to steal away.
“He looks like a pirate,” I said.
Ruthie followed my eyes. “Carlo Leoni? He’s Aramco’s official photographer,” she said, then in a low whisper, “and gigolo.”
“Here?” I asked, my mouth gone slack.
“Where better?” Ruthie gave a knowing smile. “Boredom is the desire for desires, you know.” When Mason turned our way, she drew back. “Let’s have lunch on Monday,” she said. “I’m dying to see what you’ve done with the place.”
I hesitated, wondering whether I had done anything at all with the place and what I would fix for our meal. I’d never learned to make the little sandwiches Houston wives favored, cucumberssliced paper-thin, cold soup alongside. Each luncheon, each tea, I’d find myself reaching for the salt, spooning more sugar, just to taste something. I’d go home, put on a big pot of brown beans, boil up a ham bone, cut in a slab of bacon, bake cornbread in a cast-iron skillet, sheen it with lard. If it was cucumber I wanted, then chunks of it with rings of sweet onion, floated in vinegar and oil, doused with salt.
“I’ll bring dessert,” Ruthie said, and was off to chat with a group of wives. I missed her immediately.
Abdullah waited for us after the meeting, leaning against the Land Cruiser, talking with a few other Arab men, who lowered their gazes and moved away as we approached. I stopped until Mason touched my arm.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“They make me feel so strange,” I whispered, “like I’m poison or something.”
He lifted his shoulders. “I think they do it out of respect.”
I forced a smile for Abdullah as I ducked into the back of the Land Cruiser. I looked around at the other women coming from the building, most dressed in light summer clothing that showed their arms and legs, and wondered whether the Arab men who worked inside the compound believed themselves in heaven or in hell. I flapped my program against the heat, imagining that Abdullah had been talking about me. Mason sat quiet, lost in thought, but Abdullah motioned to the horizon as though he could see something brewing in the clear blue sky.
“Tonight, there will be one last rain,” he said.
“In the desert?” I asked. “How do you know?”
“Because I am Bedu,” he said, and looked at me in the rearview. “You will learn.” I recognized a hint of teasing and grinned back until Mason began quizzing him on the correct pronunciation and meaning of Arabic phrases—the early salutation
morning of light
, the night’s greeting
evening of goodness
. I listened without hearing, Abdullah’s promise still ringing in my ears.
Back home, the rooms were redolent of … what? Something I had never smelled before. Yash greeted us at the door. “Dinner at six,
memsahib
.”
I followed him into the kitchen. “Ruthie Doucet is coming for lunch on Monday,” I said.
“Perhaps I will make a cold carrot soup,” he said.
“You will?”
He lifted his eyes at my surprise. “I am your houseboy and your cook,” he said. “I prepare your meals, clean your rooms, do your laundry, and run your errands.” He saw the look on my face and allowed a thin smile. “You will get used to it, believe me.”
“Ruthie says she will bring
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