“No, of course not.”
“Good.”
Zavian cleared his throat. “And your family are all well, Mohammed?”
Mohammed rested his eagle glance on Zavian.
“They are, Your Majesty. My wife thrives with her children and grandchildren all around her. Our life follows the traditional pattern and continues as my father and his father before him.”
“Tradition is everything,” Gabrielle said.
Mohammed smiled, but Zavian didn’t. Gabrielle was scoring another point. The comment was aimed at him, not Mohammed, who had turned away to respond to a waiter’s query.
“Tradition is not everything, Gabrielle,” said Zavian in a low voice, hoping Mohammed wouldn’t hear. But then Mohammed turned to them both.
Mohammed turned first one bushy-browed perceptive glance to Gabrielle before his gaze rested on Zavian. “Tradition is a complex thing, Zavian,” he said, dropping the formal title he’d been using all evening. “It can be changed and renewed, but it must always have an essence, don’t you think?” The old man turned to Gabrielle. “An essence, Gabrielle, is required. But the question is, what comprises that essence?” He smiled and stood up.
“You’re leaving so soon?” asked Gabrielle, her heartfelt, genuine regret obvious. Zavian just wished she sounded so heartfelt with him. If Mohammed hadn’t been old enough to be her grandfather, he would have been jealous.
“I am, my dear. We will be returning to my homeland early. But I hope you will be able to join us at our celebration of poetry.” What was the old man doing? Zavian saw the brief look of confusion on Gabrielle’s face. She recovered quickly.
“It would be my honor as well as my pleasure.”
“Good, then I will expect you as part of the royal entourage. That is all right, isn’t it, Zavian?”
Zavian hadn’t thought to invite Gabrielle to such an event. It was small, insignificant and he was only attending because of his ties to Mohammed and his family. “Of course.”
“Good,” replied Mohammed, looking back at Gabrielle once more. “And I hope that maybe I can repay that debt of mine.”
Gabrielle smiled, but a frown settled as she watched the old man walk away.
But Zavian didn’t frown. He felt his spirits lighten. As he watched Mohammed, Zavian thought for the first time that the old man might be on his side. He was going to look forward to this poetry celebration.
Chapter 9
Gabrielle looked around the group of people ranged around the campfire and wondered how she could have borne to be away for so long.
As the sun began to slide behind the inky horizon, with the humps and rolls of the sand dunes all around the camp, encircling and cosseting them like a nurturing mother, the chanting of theAl-Taghroodabegan.
First, the haunting strains of therababafilled the air, the bow drawn back and forth over the strings, while the player’s fingers move quickly over holes in the pipe at the top. Then a man’s voice rose and fell as he honored his home and family with his poetry. No sooner had his voice faded, than another answered him, responding to his words, affirming their traditions—shared history and friends and companions, traveling across the deserts in a camel train. They were words that had been passed down through the generations by the community of elders.
The poets may have arrived by car, and the few camels grazed some distance away, but the sentiments were as relevant today as they had been over the centuries that the oral tradition had continued.
A lump came into Gabrielle’s throat, which she tried unsuccessfully to swallow, as tears sprung to her eyes. She blinked furiously. She wanted no one to see, particularly Zavian. Seated with the women, who’d be performing their ownAl-Taghroodalater, she glanced at where he sat with the other men.
Zavian listened attentively, but she immediately noticed he had a different expression on his face than usual. His jaw was less tense, his eyes less guarded. She snatched in a short breath and returned her gaze to the poets, scarcely taking in the short movements of the poet’s whip—a reference to their heritage as camel riders—which marked patterns in the sand, emphasizing their poetry.
Somehow she’d managed to avoid seeing Zavian alone over the few days since the dinner with Sheikh Mohammed. Other than her work, she’d kept to her room, and even Zavian had drawn the line at seeking her out there. Which was good because she had nothing to say to him. She was back to square one. Zavian wanting her but not loving her, and she, a misfit in the country she loved so much.
But today she’d pushed aside any thought of being a misfit, to enjoy the traditional poetry which made her feel at one with this country.
Then silence fell, and it was time for Gabrielle and the women to perform. She’d felt honored to be asked, as it was a privilege to participate. After a couple of women had recited their poetry, it was her turn. Although acutely aware of her difference to the women—taller and paler, as well as her accent—by the time it was her turn, she was lost in the words she recited, all thought of nerves vanished.
She didn’t rise but, like the others, sat around the circle. The women’s poetry—Nabati poetry—focused more on the domestic world than the men’s. And the poem she’d chosen by a poetess called Bakhu Al-Mariyah was no different. It expressed, in Arabic, the poet’s longing for a tent and an over-riding love for the desert which called to Gabrielle above everything. It described how her gaze would rest on the “plain behind the mountain” where the Bedouin nomads would be making their desert camps.
There were nods of approval for the poem’s sentiments and for her delivery, and then another poet began to perform. As she sat back and listened, the last words she’d spoken echoed in her mind, and she couldn’t help wondering if Zavian had received the message which lay behind her choice of the poem. Her heart belonged to freedom and the desert, not tied down to one place, one man, especially with a man who had no love for her.
Thedallahwas taken from the burning embers of the fire, which were re-ignited, bursting a welcome warmth around the space. A woman poured hot water from thedallahinto a tray of glasses, and the aroma from the sage-flavored tea rose into the air.