Page 53 of Under the Arabian Sky

“Liar,” he grinned back.

Just as we were about to leave the clinic, my phone buzzed.

I picked it up and glanced at the caller ID. It was Henderson.

“Tariq, will you excuse me? This is my boss. He’s calling from the Sahara, it’s near impossible to reach him. I have to take this.”

“Of course. I’ll leave you to talk. Come to the house when you’re ready.”

As Tariq left the clinic and closed the door behind him, I picked up the call. “Professor Henderson?”

“Arthur! It’s good to hear your voice,” Henderson said down the faint, crackling line. “How are you coping?”

“Surprisingly well, actually.”

“So, it seems. I got your message. I’m glad you’ve settled in, but I have good news for you.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve found your replacement. One of my assistants here in North Africa is keen to take on the challenge. I’ve booked you on a plane first thing in the morning. I know flying isn’t your thing, but I assumed you’d be willing to face your fears and get the hell out of there as soon as possible, back to your cosy little life in Oxford. No more desert for you. How does that sound?”

“Oh… um… that sounds…”

Terrible.

Devastating.

Heart-breaking.

“What did you say?” Henderson shouted down the static-filled line. “You’re breaking up.”

“That sounds… very generous of you. But I’m—”

“Arthur, I can’t hear you.”

“I said—”

“I can’t hear you at all now. If you can still hear me, I’ve emailed you the details of your flight home. You can thank me later. Until then—”

With a sharp click the line went dead.

And so did a little piece of my heart.

* * *

Upon his mother’s insistence, Tariq, his father and I sat at the dining table while Zahra fussed about, bringing dish after dish and setting them all down in the middle of the table, until there was more food than we could possibly eat sitting before us. There were platters of rice and saffron and sultanas and nuts; bowls of hummus and yoghurt with mint and cucumber; plates ofkhubz ragagand olive oil and dukkah; trays of chargrilled corn and capsicum and whole roasted garlics; casserole pots filled with goat curry and spiced lamb; and finally a bottle of red—

“Wine?” I asked Tariq, trying not to sound too surprised. “You’re allowed to drink wine?”

Before Tariq could answer, Zahra said, “I thought it might settle a few nerves after the day we’ve had. Shhh, don’t tell anyone.”

“I thought it was outlawed.”

“It’s frowned upon by Islamic law, yes,” answered Tariq. “But some Muslims still partake in it.”

“Not unlike some other activities that are ‘frowned upon by Islamic law’,” said Tariq’s father, casting an accusatory glare first at Tariq, then at me.

Tariq ignored his father and picked up the bottle to pour him some wine, but his father promptly placed his hand over his wine glass. “Not for me. I do not spit in the face of Allah. But please… pour some for yourself and your British friend. I know you don’t have any remorse when it comes to insulting our faith.”

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