Court of Veils Page 15

  They made their way out of the caves, untied their horses and remounted. The plain was not quite so hazy with heat, above it the mountains of the Gebel d’Oro licked at the blue sky with forked, tawny tongues. A land to catch at the imagination, to lure and to frighten with its stretches of untamed desert, its gullies gaping like sardonic grins, and its hidden villages such as Ajina, honeycombed with strange Arab dwellings.

  Half-naked children ran about, playing in the dust among lumps of masonry. Then they spotted the two riders and at once they came hopping and leaping over the stones to caper about the legs of the horses. They didn’t pester for anything, but with enormous dark eyes they gazed up into Roslyn’s face and she wished she had some sweets to give them. She said as much to Tristan when the band of urchins had run off down an alleyway.

  ‘These people cling to the old ways,’ Tristan told her. ‘They don’t like strangers to give things to their children.’ ‘Even a few innocuous sweets?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Look about you, Roslyn. This is a place of ancient taboos, and veiled women who still believe in the power of the Evil Eye.’

  The village did have an air of mystery, of women held in awe of superstition, and as her gaze travelled up the rampart of blank doors, one of them abruptly opened to reveal a gaunt, robed figure. Roslyn met dark eyes, glittering above cheekbones almost Mongolian. The man’s nose was jutting and hawkish like his beard, and he stared at them as they rode through his village. Roslyn felt uneasy, and was glad when they neared the end of the street, where women were drawing water from a well.

  As the women inspected Roslyn from the tips of her riding-boots to her slouch hat, she couldn’t help wondering if they despised her boyish clothing, or accepted all things passively. She tried to put herself in the place of one of them, and found her every nerve shrinking from the idea of seclusion in this fortress of a village.

  ‘Will things never change for them?’ She turned to gaze back at the black-draped women as she and Tristan rode out of Ajina.

  ‘The headman is old and feudal, but when he dies his son will see to it that changes are made. He wants the children educated, and the adults taught new methods of tilling the land. You would never believe that such harsh land could be made to yield, eh?’

  ‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘It seems to be very rocky.’

  ‘Ah, but there are underground springs beneath it. I am told the hills, and consequently those houses, must be blasted flat in order to make this crop-growing scheme possible for the villagers.’

  ‘It would make all the difference in their lives, wouldn’t it?’ Roslyn said eagerly. ‘An abundance of crops, maize and wheat - and new houses for those women. Will the scheme be realized, Tristan?’

  ‘I am sure it will. The man who will soon be running the village - you saw him watching us as we rode through -has become a member of a Food Association Board set up by my cousin.’

  ‘By Duane?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tristan met her wide-eyed look, and a smile twitched on his lips. ‘Duane is greatly interested in these people of the East, far more so than I could ever be. In many ways he is our grandfather all over again, a born colonist, and idealist, suited in every way to the life out here.’

  ‘What if he marries?’ she asked.

  ‘If he marries, then the woman will have to fold her tent like Ruth and dwell with him in the desert.’

  Roslyn thought of Isabela, who was hardly the type to go ‘whither thou goest’. She had a career, a love of cities, and a taking nature rather than a giving one.

  ‘Are you thinking that he might wish to marry Isabela?’ Tristan asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Nanette, of course, gave up her career in order to marry my grandfather, and women are unpredictable -yes, I suppose it is possible. Chérie,’ his voice deepened, ‘just look at that sunset!’

  Together they gazed in awe as the sun in the west spilled like an oriental vat and splashed the sky and the sands with gold, flame and rose. A brief, savage glory, veiled all too soon by a lilac dusk splintered with stars.

  ‘How beautiful,’ Roslyn sighed as she fastened her cloak. ‘Yet if it lasted any longer, it would be unbearable.’

  Like ghostly riders they made no sound as they rode home across the sands, carrying with them strange impressions of Ajina. When they neared the plantation they heard one of the Arab workers singing plaintively among the trees.

  Duane strolled up to dinner that evening, and the air was so balmy and tree-scented that they sat out among the shadows of the Court of the Veils to drink their coffee and talk.

  ‘Roslyn was very interested, Duane, in that crop-growing project you and the future headman of Ajina hope to put into operation.’ Tristan bent his head to accept the light Isabela held for his cigar. When he drew back, Roslyn caught the glitter of the singer’s eyes fixed on her face. Then the flame snapped out and there was only the faint glow of Isabela’s white embroidery dress.

  ‘Unless something is done at Ajina, those people are likely to die out.’ The orange eye of Duane’s cigar pointed in Roslyn’s direction. ‘The pot-bellies of the children do strike at the conscience, don’t they, Miss Brant?’

  ‘If one has a conscience,’ she agreed.

  ‘Did it come as a surprise to learn that I have one?’ he drawled.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Come now, I hope you aren’t pinning wings to my shoulders because I get concerned about a bunch of hungry kids.’

  ‘Wings wouldn’t suit you,’ she rejoined. ‘Mr. Hunter, may I ask a favour of you ?’

  ‘I don’t want all this shiny new favour to lose its lustre, so go ahead and ask.’

  ‘Tristan tells me that adults of the village don’t like strangers to give sweets to their children. Couldn’t you do something to alter that attitude?’

  ‘Why, because you’d like to play Sugar Plum Fairy and hand out candy to the kids?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic about it,’ she said hotly, aware of Isabela’s throaty giggle in the dark.

  ‘The ways of those Saharans might seem strange to you,’ he said curtly, ‘but even in some parts of the United States there are large communities that cut themselves off from their more progressive neighbours and live as their forebears did. That’s okay, if they are able to be self-supporting, but I know, just as you suspect emotionally, that Ajina can’t survive as a self-supporting community. But when Europeans start approaching such communities with their modem ideas, patience is the guide word. Archaic notions have to be tolerated until they can be eliminated, no matter how much they try that patience.’

  He drew hard on his cigar, making a warning red light in the dark. ‘Bear in mind what I’ve said, Roslyn, and don’t go wandering up there alone with a tin of toffees and good intentions the mothers of those kids won’t understand. They’ll take you for a grey-eyed witch—’

  ‘Duane, really! Roslyn is little more than a child herself, a kind-hearted one, who does not fully understand your problems ...’ and there, with a sharp catch of her breath, Nanette broke off and caught at the left side of her chest.

  ‘What’s the matter, Nanette?’ Duane was on his feet in an instant and bending over her.

  But for several seconds she couldn’t speak, each breath she took seemed to cause her distress. Then the frightening spasm passed and she let Duane lift her into his arms and carry her into the salon. Under the lights they saw that her face was pallid and drawn.

  ‘A little brandy will help.’ Roslyn hurried to the sideboard where the decanters stood. Behind her, as she opened the cupboard and took out a glass, Duane was saying that a doctor should be sent for. ‘Get on the phone to my house, Tristan,’ he said. ‘Tell my houseboy Da-ud to take the car and fetch Dr. Suleiman up here as fast as possible.’

  ‘Suleiman’s an Arab,’ Tristan objected.

  ‘What the devil does that matter?’ Duane’s voice was impatient. ‘He’s a darned good doctor, and Da-ud will find him quicker than you or
me. The nearest French doctor lives in town and he’ll take an hour or more getting here.’

  ‘Very well.’ Tristan strode of to telephone, and Roslyn sat down beside Nanette and coaxed a few sips of brandy into her. Duane was kneeling beside the divan, his face curiously alien to Roslyn as he spoke in soothing French to his grandmother and stroked her fragile hands.

  Isabela stood nearby, wrenching with her fingers at a chiffon handkerchief. Her fingers grew still as Roslyn glanced at Duane and told him not to worry. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the fair head so close in that moment to the coppery ruffled hair of the man.

  Though Duane’s face was strange to Roslyn as she looked at him, she felt no stranger to the task of giving comfort to his grandmother. She was in fact reacting instinctively as an air-hostess trained and ready to give aid to a distressed person, and her fingers did not fumble as she removed Nanette’s choker of pearls, and placed cushions behind her shoulders so that she was propped up and able to breathe more easily.

  There was a calm gentleness about her that combined with the lamplight in her fair hair to give her a look of beauty that made Isabela’s eyes gleam catlike as they raked her.

  Roslyn wasn’t aware of the other girl, only of Nanette ... and Duane.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘A DOCTOR is coming, ma chère.’ Duane gave his grandmother a reassuring smile. ‘He is a good man and he will soon make you feel better.’

  She nodded, and for a long moment her eyes rested upon his face. Then she glanced at Roslyn, who sensed at once that Nanette wished to speak privately to her grandson. She rose and went over to the archway that led out to the Court of the Veils. A night breeze rustled the branches of the big pepper tree, and behind her she heard the low rumble of Duane’s voice.

  Isabela had not moved her position. It was obvious that she wanted to hear what was being said ... and Roslyn felt certain that Duane was promising to carry on with the work his grandfather had started. The work of the plantation, so far from Lisbon and Paris, and the glitter of the operatic world.

  Upon Dr. Suleiman’s arrival, Nanette was carried to her room by Duane, who reappeared in the salon a few minutes later. Yousef had just brought coffee, and Roslyn poured out while Tristan handed round the sensible-sized French cups.

  Isabela had made herself comfortable on a divan, and she beckoned Duane to join her. He did so, sinking down among the cushions with a rather deep sigh.

  ‘Did Dr. Suleiman have anything to say about Nanette?’ Tristan asked anxiously.

  ‘You know doctors.’ Duane took a gulp of hot coffee. ‘They won’t commit themselves until they’ve turned a patient inside out.’

  ‘You are certain this man knows his job?’ Tristan persisted.

  Duane’s gaze flashed upwards. ‘I would hardly place Nanette - of all people - in the hands of an incompetent,’ he said cuttingly. ‘She happens to mean a great deal to me, and for your edification, Dr. Suleiman was trained in Algiers and in England, where he specialized in internal medicine. He could have gone into practice in a city anywhere and earned plenty of money, instead he chose to come and doctor the people of El Kadia. I have called him in several times to attend to accident cases at the plantation and I can assure you his methods are right up to date, and his ability first rate.’

  ‘I was merely asking.’ Tristan put out a hand and gripped his cousin’s shoulder. ‘We are both worried, mon cher. It is understandable, for who in the world could take Nanette’s place in our hearts?’

  Roslyn sipped her coffee, but it didn’t infuse much warmth into her body, which had gone curiously cold at Tristan’s words. He began to pace about the salon, finally he went and sat at the piano, as though only there did he find a measure of peace from his anxious thoughts.

  Isabela, her silken legs curled beneath her, was studying Duane’s profile under her full eyelids. Roslyn saw the gleam of her eyes as they dwelt on his ruffled hair, then travelled down the lean cheek, past the jutting nose to the compressed lips and hard jaw. What was Isabela thinking - that it was going to be quite a job, enticing such a man to break a promise?

  Suddenly, with no sound of footfalls on the tiles of the corridor, a man entered the room. He was slenderly built and though he was wearing a lounge suit, there was no mistaking him for a European. His eyes sloped densely above hollow cheeks, his expression combined shrewdness with a look of age-old patience and humour. His hands were narrow and shapely as a woman’s.

  ‘Madame Gerard is now sleeping,’ he said in English. ‘I assure all of you that there is no cause for alarm - when one is past seventy, the heart grows a little tired. I have prescribed for her from two to three weeks’ complete rest in bed, and I would suggest that a nurse be hired. Someone to ensure that Madame remains in her bed.’

  ‘Can you arrange about a nurse, Dr. Suleiman?’ Duane asked.

  ‘Of course, Mr. Hunter, if you wish me to.’

  ‘I should have thought it advisable for Madame to be examined by a heart specialist,’ Tristan said. ‘I am not disputing your word, Dr. Suleiman, but my grandmother did look extremely fatigued, and her breathing was bad.’

  ‘If it will set your mind at rest, m’sieur, then by all means call in a specialist.’ Dr. Suleiman smiled faintly. ‘I repeat, however, that Madame is of an age when the heart is no longer elastic, and there are signs of an anaemia which I should like to examine more fully.’

  ‘Naturally we wish you to keep a check on her, Dr. Suleiman,’ Duane said firmly. ‘This anaemia would account for the breathlessness, I take it? What about the pain?’

  ‘Heart pain, directly in that region, is not always indicative of disease of the organ, Mr. Hunter. Madame Gerard is strong for her years, I do assure you, but the East will take toll in the end of the soundest of European constitutions, and right now she needs rest and to be treated for anaemia for some time. I am confident that I can remedy this condition for her - if I am permitted to do so.’

  ‘You are, with our thanks, Doctor.’ Duane smiled tiredly, and thrust a hand through his shock of copper hair. ‘God, what a relief! You can just imagine what we’ve all been thinking for the past hour.’

  The Arab doctor inclined his head, then turned to accept from Roslyn the cup of coffee she had poured out for him. ‘J’ai soif, merci,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘I’m English, Doctor.’ She smiled back at him. ‘If Madame Gerard is not seriously ill, would it be all right for me to look after her?’

  ‘You are not a nurse, chérie,’ Tristan exclaimed. ‘Air-hostesses have to be able to look after the sick, and Nanette might prefer me to a stranger.’ Then she glanced from Tristan to Duane. ‘Unless you would prefer someone else, Mr. Hunter?’ she added.

  ‘I haven’t the sole casting vote on that question,’ he said dryly. ‘If Tristan wants you, and if Dr. Suleiman finds you suitably qualified, then I am out-voted.’

  ‘The qualifications are fairly simple ones.’ Dr. Suleiman was regarding Roslyn with shrewd, interested eyes. ‘Madame must be kept in bed, and it will be easier to keep her there if she is attended by someone patient, willing -and charming.’

  Roslyn felt herself go pink at the compliment. Duane was watching with cool green eyes as Tristan put an arm around her. ‘Miss Brant has amnesia,’ he informed the doctor. ‘She has been very brave about it.’

  ‘Amnesia is a most interesting condition from a psychological point of view.’ The doctor’s smile was a mixture of shrewdness and sympathy. ‘Mr. Hunter and I were discussing a case of it some time ago. One of his workmen sustained a severe blow on the head and suffered a total loss of memory - but for forty-eight hours only. How long have you had your amnesia, Miss Brant?’

  She told him, and he looked thoughtful. ‘Amnesia in a sensitive female would be likely to last longer than in a sturdy, extrovert male. It is also possible, Miss Brant, that the past holds something which you don’t wish to remember—’

  ‘Don’t you know,’ Tristan broke in, ‘that my brother, Miss Bran
t’s fiancé, was killed in the plane crash in which she received her head injury?’

  Dr. Suleiman studied her as he drank his coffee and then set aside the cup and saucer. ‘Yes, your mind could be taking its time to adjust from the shock - very possibly it will take another shock to jolt your memory awake.’

  ‘Not - not another like the crash?’ She looked at him aghast.

  ‘By no means.’ He shook his head quickly. ‘I refer to an emotional shock. In the majority of women the emotions are sensitive as violin strings ... tuned too tightly they will go off key, or they will snap. When this happens, Miss Brant, you will have to face all that you have forgotten. And now,’ he consulted his wrist watch, ‘I think I will take my leave.’

  He turned his attention to Tristan. ‘By all means call in a heart specialist to take a look at Madame Gerard, but I think you will find my opinion verified.’

  ‘I’m sure of it, Tristan.’ As Duane spoke, Roslyn felt the brief, green flicker of his glance. ‘Dr. Suleiman is usually right when he makes a diagnosis.’

  He and the doctor then said good night and departed, their voices mingling deeply as they made their way to Duane’s car. Roslyn turned to say good night to Isabela, who brushed past her without replying and swept out of the room. Tristan caught Roslyn’s eye and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Isabela likes to be the étoile of all dramas,’ he said dryly. ‘She did not like it tonight that Duane had his thoughts upon someone other than herself.’

  ‘She’s very selfish,’ Roslyn said quietly. ‘Knowing how much you both love Nanette ...’ the words caught in her throat and she began to collect up the coffee cups and to stack them on the tray for Yousef.

  Within a matter of days Nanette was feeling much better. She had confidence in Dr. Suleiman and waved away Tristan’s suggestion that a specialist be brought in to take a look at her. ‘My old heart is bound to feel creaky after seventy-three years of living and loving,’ she said. ‘The doctor I have knows what he is doing, Tristan.’