The Weeping Desert Read Online Free Page A

the palest pink.
    And yet there were some signs of modernity: several large cut-glass bottles of bath oil in garish colours, which he had seen on sale in the souk ,and hanging from some contemporary brass rings in the wall were a set of bath towels in pink, so thick that they could only have come from Harrods.
    It was obviously a woman’s room. John wondered if this made it any safer for him to hide in. Would the guards be allowed to enter such a room, even to search it?
    A door to the right led to a small dressing room in which John saw a tall, inlaid ivory screen. He was about to move it swiftly into the best angle for concealment, when he stopped aghast, hardly daring to breathe.
    Asleep on a divan behind the screen, her head resting on silken cushions was a young girl. Her face was one of amazing beauty, for the flawless olive skin was glistening with oil, and the dark wings of her eyebrows were a perfect shape above the long lashes which fanned out on her faintly pink cheeks. She was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. Her nose was small and delicate and yet slightly arrogant, and her mouth was warmly red and wide and curved into a restful smile.
    She was obviously sleeping off a bath in the Arabian custom, wrapped up to the armpits in a huge thick bath sheet, and her long dark hair twisted loosely on her head, the moisture still slowly dripping down her slender neck.
    John began to step backwards, one foot at a time, in tense silence, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. In feeling for the doorway, he touched the door; only slightly, but the noise sounded like a crack of thunder, and the girl opened her eyes and shot up on the divan, terrified, clutching the sheet to her.
    In a flash John was over to her side, his big hand firmly over her half-opened mouth. Her eyes looked up at him, and even the terror in them did not destroy their absolute beauty. They were a brown so dark and clear and large that John almost slackened his grip.
    But the moment passed. The girl began to struggle, her eyes flashing with a fury now mixed with her fear.
    “I won’t hurt you,” said John in a low voice. “Don’t struggle. I’m not going to harm you.”
    His mind hunted for the right words in Arabic, and he began again, haltingly, “Don’t be afraid…”
    Suddenly the girl sank her teeth into his hand, his burnt hand, and the pain was excruciating. She slipped from his grasp, but instead of screaming, she scrambled to the other end of the divan and sat with great dignity wrapping the sheet more closely round herself.
    “If you had not clapped your big hand so clumsily over my mouth, I could have told you that I would not scream,” she said, surprisingly in English. She went on in her small, clear voice: “You are like a five-footed camel. No doubt the whole palace has heard you, and my servants will be here in a moment.”
    “I can explain,” said John. “It’s all an accident, a mistake. Believe me, I just want to get out of here.”
    From outside came the shrill voices of some women. The girl rose from the divan and stood in the doorway, listening. A woman had come into the marble bathroom and was talking at great length.
    At last the girl said in Arabic: “Go away. You are disturbing my sleep. There is no one here. Begone, I tell you.”
    John sank back on the divan, wiping his face and hands, breathing hard. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he began.
    “Shsh,” she warned. “It is still not safe. I will hide you in my summer kiosk until it is dark. Then I will lead you out of the Gate of the Dead.”
    John could not believe his ears. They were strange words for this century. Had one of those ruffians hit him on the head, and this was all some concussed fantasy?
    “Where am I?” he asked. “Who are you?”
    The girl stood in the doorway, dark and slender and with great dignity. She seemed to be looking closely at him, and what she saw in the tall, fair Englishman seemed to meet her