said. She was packing up her papers as she spoke, and added, ‘And I really can’t do any more until I see the space, so perhaps you’ll tell me about the falcons.’
The smile slipped away, and she added quickly, ‘Although I have a book to read if you’re busy.’
But falcons were his passion, his one diversion from the world of work, so the invitation to talk about them was tempting.
‘You know they’re hunting birds?’
‘Birds of prey, yes,’ she said, warm interest in her voice and the sparkle back in her eyes.
‘We train them to hunt for us. In days gone by, they provided food for the tribe, but now we hunt for pleasure. Although there are many, many breeds of falcon, we have three main ones we use, the gyr, the saker and the peregrine. We cross-breed them for strength and speed, and in all breeds the female is the bigger and the stronger.’
‘I suppose she needs to be to ensure her babies have food,’ Liz said, and for the first time he saw her hand rest on her swollen belly.
Perhaps she wasn’t as detached as she had appeared…
‘They’re migratory birds but these days we don’t catch and train wild birds visiting our land. They are protected and we have breeding programmes aimed at increasing their numbers. The birds we breed for hunting have passports, much like you and I do, with a photo of the bird and details of its genealogy.’
‘To prevent inbreeding?’
It was a natural question, but Khalifa was warmed by her interest.
‘Partly,’ he admitted, ‘but also to prevent theft, and so a lost bird can be returned to her owner, but the main reason is so unscrupulous people can’t pass off wild birds as bred ones.’
Now she was frowning.
‘Is it such a big business that people would do that?’ she asked, and he had to laugh.
‘Wait until you see a falcon judging at one of our hunting expos. Every man there thinks he has the best bird. Envy, greed, pride—these qualities are universal, and in our country, no more so than at a falcon judging.’
The laughter made him human, Liz decided. That’s why it affected her so much. One minute he was the complete businessman—an aloof, even kingly, businessman, and then he laughed and it wasn’t just the fizzing and the sparking, but warmth spread through her, seeping into all the places that had been frozen solid since Bill’s death.
Renewing her.
He talked on, about his birds, about watching them in flight and feeling a surge of freedom as they rose into the air, then the swoop as they sighted prey and plunged back to earth.
‘They can travel at three hundred and fifty kilometres an hour,’ he said.
‘And if they mistime their swoop and hit the ground?’
He laughed again.
‘It happens more often than you’d think and, yes, they can be killed or badly injured. In our falcon hospital we have a cabinet with drawers of feathers, so damaged feathers can be replaced, the replacement chosen from hundreds to most closely match the bird’s plumage.’
‘How do they attach a feather?’
‘With a needle and thread, of course.’
Liz found herself laughing, not at the story but with delight that in this strange world to which she travelled was a land where people sewed carefully matched feathers back onto their birds.
Saif broke the merriment, coming in to ask what she would like for whatever meal they happened to be up to now, offering a choice of salads and open sandwiches, small meatballs or arancini. He handed her a menu, pointing out larger meals if she wanted something more substantial but in the end she left the choice to him.
‘You are hungry?’ Khalifa asked, after Saif had consulted him and departed.
‘All the time, it seems,’ she admitted, and for a moment Khalifa wondered if she’d say more—blame her pregnancy for her hunger maybe—but once again it seemed the subject was off limits.
Had the father of her baby hurt her in some way?
Could, heaven forbid, the pregnancy have been the result of a
The smile slipped away, and she added quickly, ‘Although I have a book to read if you’re busy.’
But falcons were his passion, his one diversion from the world of work, so the invitation to talk about them was tempting.
‘You know they’re hunting birds?’
‘Birds of prey, yes,’ she said, warm interest in her voice and the sparkle back in her eyes.
‘We train them to hunt for us. In days gone by, they provided food for the tribe, but now we hunt for pleasure. Although there are many, many breeds of falcon, we have three main ones we use, the gyr, the saker and the peregrine. We cross-breed them for strength and speed, and in all breeds the female is the bigger and the stronger.’
‘I suppose she needs to be to ensure her babies have food,’ Liz said, and for the first time he saw her hand rest on her swollen belly.
Perhaps she wasn’t as detached as she had appeared…
‘They’re migratory birds but these days we don’t catch and train wild birds visiting our land. They are protected and we have breeding programmes aimed at increasing their numbers. The birds we breed for hunting have passports, much like you and I do, with a photo of the bird and details of its genealogy.’
‘To prevent inbreeding?’
It was a natural question, but Khalifa was warmed by her interest.
‘Partly,’ he admitted, ‘but also to prevent theft, and so a lost bird can be returned to her owner, but the main reason is so unscrupulous people can’t pass off wild birds as bred ones.’
Now she was frowning.
‘Is it such a big business that people would do that?’ she asked, and he had to laugh.
‘Wait until you see a falcon judging at one of our hunting expos. Every man there thinks he has the best bird. Envy, greed, pride—these qualities are universal, and in our country, no more so than at a falcon judging.’
The laughter made him human, Liz decided. That’s why it affected her so much. One minute he was the complete businessman—an aloof, even kingly, businessman, and then he laughed and it wasn’t just the fizzing and the sparking, but warmth spread through her, seeping into all the places that had been frozen solid since Bill’s death.
Renewing her.
He talked on, about his birds, about watching them in flight and feeling a surge of freedom as they rose into the air, then the swoop as they sighted prey and plunged back to earth.
‘They can travel at three hundred and fifty kilometres an hour,’ he said.
‘And if they mistime their swoop and hit the ground?’
He laughed again.
‘It happens more often than you’d think and, yes, they can be killed or badly injured. In our falcon hospital we have a cabinet with drawers of feathers, so damaged feathers can be replaced, the replacement chosen from hundreds to most closely match the bird’s plumage.’
‘How do they attach a feather?’
‘With a needle and thread, of course.’
Liz found herself laughing, not at the story but with delight that in this strange world to which she travelled was a land where people sewed carefully matched feathers back onto their birds.
Saif broke the merriment, coming in to ask what she would like for whatever meal they happened to be up to now, offering a choice of salads and open sandwiches, small meatballs or arancini. He handed her a menu, pointing out larger meals if she wanted something more substantial but in the end she left the choice to him.
‘You are hungry?’ Khalifa asked, after Saif had consulted him and departed.
‘All the time, it seems,’ she admitted, and for a moment Khalifa wondered if she’d say more—blame her pregnancy for her hunger maybe—but once again it seemed the subject was off limits.
Had the father of her baby hurt her in some way?
Could, heaven forbid, the pregnancy have been the result of a
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