Free The Weeping Desert by Alexandra Thomas

out of bounds.
    She was nineteen; just a kid. She was entitled to some life of her own. John thought of Sheila and her unquestioned freedom to train for the career of her choice, to live and work where she pleased, to look straight into the eyes of any man as his equal.
    “All right,” said John reluctantly. “Just for a few weeks. But you’re not to faint every time you see a bus.”
    Khadija’s face broke into a radiant smile. “Please,” she giggled. “What is a bus?”
    John sighed and sat back in his seat. He had been looking forward to a nice quiet leave—a little golf, perhaps some climbing in Scotland, a few days’ fishing with some pals. Now he was landed with an Arab princess, all fainting and fluttering, who would probably need escorting to a pillar box to post a letter.
    “Would you like a drink?” he asked, resigned.
    “Yes, please. If you would ask the servant.”
    John swallowed. He was obviously going to have to start at square one.
    “The young lady is not a servant,” he explained. “She is an air hostess. There are not many servants as you know the meaning of the word in Europe. People are equal, although they may bring you food or serve you in some way.”
    The air hostess appeared at John’s side, with a tray of drinks. “Is the lady feeling better? I’ve brought some sal volatile. Or would she like some fruit juice?”
    He took a glass of lemonade for Khadija. “And remember, you are not my wife. You are just a friend.”
    Khadija bowed her head demurely. “As my husband wishes,” she demurred.
    “Get this straight, Khadija,” said John. “That ceremony or whatever it was means nothing to me. I do not consider that we are married.”
    “Please do not call me Katie-jar. What is this Katie-jar? My name is Khadija,” she pronounced the Arabic name softly, sibilantly, the consonants disappearing like a sigh.
    “Katie is an English name. I’ll try not to call you Katie-jar. You must call me John.”
    “John…John…” Khadija said the name over to herself. “Yes, I like.”
    Indeed she did like. A small bubble of excitement was beginning inside her, now that the fear of flying was subsiding. It was all a marvel to her that she was up in the air like a bird, and yet still alive and breathing. She began to look around cautiously, with the curiosity of a child. Inside the aeroplane was such a funny place with people sitting in rows so solemnly. She was still a little afraid but the calm presence of John comforted her.
    She glanced sideways at him, hoping that he was not still angry with her. His mouth was set in a firm line but it was not a cruel mouth. He spoke very little to her, and Khadija silenced all the questions she wanted to ask him. She would try to be no more trouble to him.
     
    Khadija endured the rest of the journey stoically, although it was a long time before she let go of John’s arm. She insisted on wearing her mask, and John did not try to dissuade her. It would take some time for her to become accustomed to leaving her face bare. She slept much of the time, like a child weary with new sights and experiences. Once she awoke with fright as the plane descended at Rome, and she clung to John, trembling like a rabbit.
    “I have fastened your belt. Don’t be afraid,” he soothed her. “Take some deep breaths. Look out of the window. See how pretty it is, with all the lights.”
    She looked obediently, and was soon fascinated by all the lights twinkling down below.
    It was early morning as they flew over the Alps, and dawn was touching the ice caps with a pink paint brush. Khadija was enchanted. She forgot her fear and gazed at the giant mountain ridges as if she could hardly believe she was still in the same world as her empty desert wastes.
    “Shall I see Paris?” she asked wistfully.
    “No. We are flying too high. But it’s there. It’s down there all right.”
    “I would like to see the Paris of my mother,” she said. “My father spoke of this during