Going on a Date in the Kingdom

Excerpt from: The Burning Veil

Beyond the city limits, they drove in a monotony of buff-colored sand with only the pipeline, rusted oil barrels, and a few derelict trucks to break the emptiness. What came next was worse: the salt flats, She had imagined caravans curving around dunes, falcons winging overhead, and the sands puffing and swirling. She doubted now that the oasis would be as she had hoped, a tiny lake with a fringe of palm trees. Qatif had been a trading center since the third millennium B.C., a link between the civilizations of Mesopotamia and the Indus Valley. Before the advent of Islam, Zoroastrians, Jews, and Christians lived there. And before them, the inhabitants followed the cult of Ishtar, the goddess of love and war. Archeologists thought a sculpture of her seated on a golden lion was hidden nearby. “Apparently Ishtar had a fondness for men,” Ibrahim said. 

 “Like me for you,” Sarah said lightly. “Maybe Annie’s husband will get to excavate there.”

 “I doubt it. A few years ago, British archeologists tried to get permission to dig, but the women of the oasis objected.”

“An odd thing to protest.”

“Not at all. It is their place.”

“So who won?”

“The women. The archeologists grumbled about our ways, but there was nothing for them to do but to pack up and fly off.”

“To more tolerant realms?” She rested her hand on his knee. “And the women?”

“Still there. Mother goes all the time.”

All at once, the scenery switched to green, cultivated land with palm trees and irrigation ditches lining either side of the highway. Sheep and goats grazed in the pastures, and at the edge of the town a white donkey pulled a cart loaded with water bottles. Ibrahim drove through the center with its five-story buildings on the long, straight streets and stopped in front of a compound just like the others except for the huge tree whose dark foliage sprawled across the compound wall. They had arrived.

“Will your father be here?” Sarah asked.

“Probably not. But Mother will.”

Sarah stared at the front door, painted a faded turquoise with a diamond pattern carved on the astragals. “I don’t feel up to it. Not yet.” She bit her thumbnail. “She won’t want me, not for a daughter-in-law.”

He considered this. “Of course, she would prefer I marry within the tribe. Still, how could she not love you? I think our chances are good.”

 “She’s not political, is she?”

“Mother?” Ibrahim laughed. “No. All she cares about is family. Really, she is an admirable woman.”

“Oh, of course, she must be, but I just don’t feel up to it.”

“You have to meet her, sooner or later. She knows you’re here.”

“But not why I’m here. I don’t like duplicity. What I’d like is to go to the tell.”

 “O.K. Mother goes there all the time. It’s not far.”

 He drove a couple of blocks and parked in the shade. Before they got out, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a mass of black silk. “You’ll feel more comfortable wearing an abaya. People here are not used to foreigners. Take this. It’s one of Layla’s.” He draped his sister’s silken cloak over her shoulders.

 “Just don’t tell me I look beautiful in it,” she grumbled.

“Actually, you do— quite alluring. Now this.” He smiled and handed her a veil for her face, and she fingered the gauze, light as dandelion fluff. She decided to make a concession, just this once. She spread the fabric between her fingertips and lifted it; the black silk, which smelled faintly of tobacco, floated above her. As it alighted on her brow, shadows replaced the glare. It was like wearing enormous sunglasses, but something about it distressed her, and she took it off, folded it into a square, and pressed it into his hand. “I’ll cover my hair, but not my face.”

“Okay.” He put the veil back in the glove compartment. “You are dressed modestly, and that is all that is required.”

As they strolled down the lane, she pressed her elbows against her sides, the way Layla had showed her, and the cloak stayed put. They turned down an alley where men were lined up outside a bakery, and through the window she saw the baker kneading dough, a blue gingham apron tied around his huge belly.

 “The tell is that way, not far.” Ibrahim pointed to a dirt path by a stack of palm frond kindling beside the bakery. “I will buy picnic food and meet you back at the car in an hour.”

 “You’re not coming?”

 He grinned. “You want those crazy women to stone me?”

 “Oh, that’s right. It’s a woman’s place. I forgot.” She laughed, glanced around to make sure no one was watching them, and pecked him on the cheek.

The sand was gritty between her toes but within a few minutes, it became moist, beaten earth. It felt cooler too. Beyond the mud walls lay plots of okra, alfalfa and rye in a radiant patchwork of green. Ring-necked parakeets screeched overhead, flashing yellow-green across the sky. Doves moaned from the groves of peach and apricot and quince. A few hundred yards down the path, she found herself in a clearing. Directly in front of her rose the tell—a steep truncated pyramid. Nestled at its base was a basin of emerald water, dappled by sunlight, where bosomy women in white slips were scrubbing themselves with loofahs while others frolicked in the shallows. When they noticed Sarah, one of them waved at her. “Yalla, come,” she called, her hair swirling behind her.

Sarah took off the abaya and set it at the edge of the pool. She hitched her pink skirt to her thighs and dangled her feet in the cool water as more women swam toward her.

“Amrikiya?” yelled a woman treading water.

“Yes,” Sarah shouted back.

“Come, Amrikiya, come.”

She stripped to her bra and panties and slipped waist-deep into the pool, balancing herself on a rocky ledge. She did not like them staring at her, so she pushed off. Deep from its underground source, warm water pulsed around her like a healing whirlpool. She squinted her eyes to shut out all but the outline of the tell. It towered above her, centuries of rubbish and treasure hidden beneath the dark slopes.

“Amrikiya!” the woman yelled again. Water glistened on her shoulders and a gold pendant nestled between her breasts.

Sarah glided toward her and followed her through a crevice in the jagged stone to a pool beyond. Here the water was cooler. She duck-dived and opened her eyes to a massive wall of cut stone. So, the legend was true; a city once existed here. She kicked to propel herself deeper until she neared the wall’s topmost crenellation. Then, short of breath, she pushed to the surface and treading water, she gulped for air. The woman swam over and patted her arm, beckoning Sarah to follow as she headed for shore. A few feet from the bank, where the water was chest high, the woman stooped and cupped water in her hands. She drank it and motioned Sarah to do the same.

Sarah shook her head. She worried about germs, bilharzia especially.

The woman laughed. “Water clean. Better than tap water.”

Sarah hesitated. Against her better judgment, she cupped her hand in the water and raised it to her mouth. “You like?”

“Yes.” It tasted sweet, not the least bit brackish. The water bubbled around her as if she were in a giant Jacuzzi.

“Follow me,” the woman said. Sarah would have preferred to stay in the pool, but she followed, clambering up onto the bank. The woman patted a spot on the ground beside her, and Sarah joined her. A lizard scurried past, looking like a miniature dinosaur. At the far edge of another pool, women were laundering thobes, undershirts, and school uniforms and then spreading them to dry on the bushes. Sarah glanced at the woman seated next to her who was combing her hair, primping it with hennaed-orange fingertips, and down at her own pale hands and trimmed doctor’s nails. She was imagining what they would look like dyed with henna when the woman reached over and touched Sarah’s hair. “Red!” she exclaimed as she rubbed a strand between her fingers. She patted herself between her legs. “Same-same here?”

“Stop hounding me,” Sarah whispered fiercely in English and turned away, embarrassed. The woman giggled and pinched Sarah’s thin arm. “Americans are too thin. You must eat. How many children?”

Sarah wanted to spit out, “seven just like everyone else,” but in a small voice she said, “none.”

The woman clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Husband?” She twisted her wedding band.

Sarah shook her head.

“Never mind.” The woman laughed. “But why no marry?”

Sarah frowned. There it was again, that irritating question.

“Is something the matter with you?”

“No.”

“Then marry.” The woman flicked her wet hair behind her and wriggled into her long brown dress; she cradled her arms a foot in front of her belly and said, giggling. “Marry and have many babies.” From a string bag, she pulled a hard-boiled egg, cracked it on her knee, and peeled it, letting bits of shell fall onto the ground. She popped out the yolk and placed it in the palm of Sarah’s hand. “Be strong. Eat.”

“Thank you.” Sarah forced herself to chew the soft yolk, which was so dry and tasteless she wanted to spit it out. “This is a pretty place,” she said politely.

“The Adari pool is more beautiful by far. We also call it, ‘Pool of the Virgin.’”

Sarah squirmed. If any word here was loaded, it was “virgin,” but she forced herself to sit still, a forced smile plastered on her face.

 “Kaan ma kaan . . . it was, it was not,” the woman began in the slow voice of the storyteller. “Long ago, a prince on a white stallion was journeying in the desert. From far off, he saw a girl standing alone. He galloped up until he was so close he could see the flutter of her eyelashes, and at once, he fell in love with her. He said he couldn’t marry her unless she was a virgin. The girl averred she was, but he insisted on a test. He told her to stick her little toe in this sand, and if she were truly virgin, water would spring up. The girl did as he said, and water bubbled up.” The woman ran her fingers through her hair. “Such an excellent story.”

“Yes, very nice,” Sarah said. The women gathered up their laundry and started to leave. At the fork in the path, they looked back and waved goodbye. At last alone, she reached down to dabble her fingers in the water. What would these women think of the anecdote about the statue of ‘Honest Abe’ in Madison—that Lincoln would rise up from his bronze chair if a virgin passed by—a phenomenon so unlikely that he would be sitting there forever?