Page 21 of Under the Arabian Sky

He laughed. “No. The clinic is attached to my house… although I’m currently in the process of building a bigger clinic, a proper falcon hospital like the one in Abu Dhabi. I’ll have a residence of my own attached to it so I’m on call whenever the birds need me.”

“That sounds amazing… but what do you mean when you say, ‘a residence of your own’?”

Tariq’s handsome smile twisted into something of a grimace. “About that…”

CHAPTER9

“Who is this?”demanded a cranky older Arabic gentleman with a greying beard and a walking cane.

“Saleem, that is not how we welcome guests into our home!” scalded a woman in her fifties, slapping the man’s arm.

“Don’t hit me woman, that is physical abuse! And since when do I need to speak English in my own home?”

“Since your only son introduced his new friend as British. And my name is not ‘woman’. It’s Zahra in case your dementia has already set in. Now pick up your manners and use them in front of…” The angry face the woman had given the man turned swiftly to a pleasant and polite smile when she asked me, “I’m sorry, dear. What was your name again?”

“Oh… um… Arthur.” I rummaged quickly through my scrambled brain to remember what Akbar had told me and said, in terrible Arabic and a bow of my head, “As-salamu ‘alaykum.”

The woman tilted her head, clearly impressed. “A cultured Westerner. What a breath of fresh air that is.”

“More like an unwelcome sandstorm,” muttered the man.

“Father!” Tariq warned him.

I had clearly offended someone by being there. “I feel like I’m intruding. Am I intruding? I should go.”

I took a step, instinctively backing away from the tension in the room, but Tariq caught my arm. “You’re not intruding at all. As my mother said, you’re my guest.” He turned to the man and loudly prompted, “Isn’t that right, Father?”

Tariq’s father didn’t answer. Instead, he simply clenched his cane and limped away.

I noticed he was wearing a traditional white gown, the same as Tariq’s, while Tariq’s mother wore a black dress. She rolled her eyes as her husband left the room and said, “Ignore him. He’s just a grumpy old man. Let me fetch you a coffee. Tariq, show your friend to the living room and make him comfortable before your father frightens him off.”

As Tariq’s mother hurried away, Tariq looked at me and said, “I’m sorry about my father.”

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?”

“Yes, of course. My father is just a little… how should I say it… set in his ways. He means no offence. Come, let us take a seat in the living room. My mother makes the best Arabic coffee in all of Oman.”

“Sounds good. I need a coffee.”

* * *

We had entered the palatial house via a path that connected the clinic to the front door of the main residence. I was surprised that it was already dark outside. I guess the day had vanished while I was unconscious.

When we entered the house, I almost didn’t notice Tariq gesturing for me to take my shoes off, as he had done. I was too distracted by the lavish entryway, complete with white marble floor, stone columns and a chandelier. Once I had heeled off my boots, I followed Tariq into the living room which was even more luxurious, with thick red carpet, a plush lounge setting that could seat at least a dozen people, and a big screen TV set into the far wall. On the other walls were gold-framed family portraits of Tariq’s father, mother, and people who I could only assume were his grandparents and relatives.

Then there was the photo of a dimpled, fresh-faced young man with a graduate hat and the sweetest smile I’d ever seen.

I had to stop. “Is this you?”

“Yes. Please don’t point to it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re a museum curator pointing out the Mona Lisa.”

I laughed. “Oh… so you think you’re the Mona Lisa?”

He grinned. “No, of course not. You’re just giving it a lot more attention than it needs.”

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