Sheikh's Ransom

“This way, Miss Langley,” he said, and opened the door.

Four

“We have surveillance?” Prince Karim asked Nasir.

“Three teams of two, Lord—at all times. Others as necessary. Forgive me, but even—you know such precautions are necessary.”

Prince Karim nodded in absent agreement “And all is prepared?”

“Everything is in readiness, Lord. Jamil has all in hand.”

“You are leaving when?”

“Tomorrow, Lord, at first light.”

She awoke restless and disturbed, wondering where she was, who she was, not knowing her own name. In a panic, she sat up, flailing for the lamp that must be near. She knew that much, that beside beds you found lamps.... Her eyes, growing accustomed to the darkness, sought out the glitter of stars through the patio door, and she staggered up and opened it.

By the time she felt the soft breeze caress her forehead she was fully awake. Caroline. She was Caroline Langley and she was on vacation in the Barakat Emirates. She was fully clothed; she must have fallen asleep on the sofa. She had sat there thinking for hours after Kaifar brought her back. She must have slipped down and dozed off. She had a vague memory of putting out the lamp. Her dream had woken her.

It was Kaifar’s fault. Dining with him tonight had disturbed her. Just being with him oppressed her. With a shiver Caroline found the overhead light switch and pressed it, welcoming the assault of the too-bright light on her wide-open eyes.

He was like that, like the light. The pupils of her inner self’s eyes were wide—looking for something?—and Kaifar was too bright, blinding her, unbalancing her. So she awoke without knowing her name....

He had put her in the back seat of the Rolls Royce limousine and driven her to the most wonderful restaurant—in a hidden courtyard, tables under sweet-smelling trees, the food utterly sensual, the darkness scarcely disturbed by the candlelight on each table. A white-haired old woman sitting in a corner had sung hauntingly, pure sounds that did not seem a human voice at all. She accompanied herself with a stringed instrument that entwined her song with tendrils of such beauty Caroline’s heart contracted.

“What is she singing?” she finally whispered.

“She sings about love. About a man in love with his best friend’s daughter. He fears to ask his friend for what he most desires, the girl for his wife.”

Caroline’s heart leapt painfully at the parallel, because David did not love her, and had not feared to ask for what he wanted.

“While he waits, the friend dies. In his will he leaves him his parrot—and the guardianship of the very daughter whom the man loves.”

He paused, listening to the song. She wanted to smile, to say something light, but she felt locked inside herself, imprisoned by something she couldn’t name.

“‘Goodbye Marjan my wife, for instead you are my daughter.”’ Kaifar, having caught up with the story, was translating in a low voice as the singer sang. He bent over the table towards her, speaking so softly she was forced to lean towards him, his voice for her ear alone. It was too intimate, but she could not draw back. “ ‘A daughter does not become a wife. My love must be hidden even from my own eyes, from my heart.’ ”

“But why?” Caroline breathed.

Kaifar merely shook his head. “It is a matter of honour. As her guardian he may not take advantage of her.”

“Oh,” said Caroline. She wondered about her father’s honour, about David’s. The haunting song went on, with Kaifar’s deep gentle voice a counterpoint.

“She came to him, she came at his request.

Whatever he asked Marjan, it was her pleasure to obey.

She smiled, white teeth and rosebud lips.

‘What do you have to say to me?’ she asked her father’s dear friend.

‘Marjan, my daughter,’ he begins. ‘Marjan.’

‘Am I your daughter?’ Marjan asks,

Smiling with white teeth and rosebud lips.

Her hair is a bouquet of blackness, petal on petal, A night flower.

‘Am I your daughter, are you my father?’

He hears the hidden message and turns away.

She puts her white hand on his sleeve.

‘You are not my father, though I have loved you all my life.

Though I love you best.’

‘Marjan, your father must find a husband for you.

The time is right. I must find you a husband.’

The smile flees her rosebud lips.

‘What husband do I need when I have you? I wish for no husband.” ’

The singer broke off, and the music built to a crescendo and stopped. “It’s not swished?” Caroline whispered, hardly able to speak under the joint spell of her thoughts, his words, the singer’s voice and the music.

Kaifar sipped his wine. “No.” The woman set aside her instrument, rose to her feet and approached a nearby table. A man gave her money, they exchanged a few words and then she came to their table and Kaifar spoke with her and gave her money, too.

Caroline was able to smile at last. “If she is paid enough, she goes on with the story?” she joked gently.

“The storyteller’s art has always partly involved knowing how to build to moments of tension and then stop.”

Caroline smiled. “Scheherazade being the foremost exponent of the art?”

Kaifar nodded encouragingly.

The waiter brought them the first course, naan with fresh green herbs and white goat’s cheese and several other small dishes that were unfamiliar to her. She tore off some of the flat bread and, following Kaifar’s lead, took a delicate sprig of herb and rolled it in the bread. The freshness of the herb exploded in her mouth.

“Do you know the ending?” she asked after a moment. The singer was still moving from table to table.

“Everyone knows the ending. It is a famous story.”

“Tell me how it ends.”

Kaifar set down his naan and leaned forward on his elbows. He smiled, a warm smile; and she remembered the way he had spoken to her, looked at her earlier in her room. She drew back slightly, but Kaifar began speaking again in a low voice, and in spite of herself Caroline was drawn forward to put her ear closer to his mouth.