The Desert Contract by John Lathrop

Author:John Lathrop
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2008-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

I picked up Helen later that evening. I parked across the street and got out of the car just in time to see the last of her Saudi “at-home” ladies filing out. They’d slipped on their black abaya s while still inside, but waited until they caught a moment of sun before they drew their veils. One spotted me, and before she hid her face, caught my eye. Her expression made me wonder if Helen had told them she was expecting a male guest. The look she gave was that of the sophisticated Saudi who views an element of Western culture of which they disapprove: severe, superior, almost courteous enough to hide the disdain.

I stayed by the car until their drivers drove them away, then crossed the street. Helen’s daily maid, a middle-aged Filipina, opened the door. “Mr. Kemp,” she said, in the same tone as “more rain” or “another sandstorm.” “Mrs. Laird is still changing.” After an initial glance she looked down and wouldn’t meet my eyes. It was her usual greeting. Flerida didn’t approve of me. Devoted to Helen, with a ferocious loyalty and Catholic virtue, she might suspect, but she’d never tell. But she was a disappointment. I’d hoped to find Helen alone.

I wandered into the living room. The detritus of the party was still there: cups of tea, trays of half-eaten cake, soiled napkins. I looked around for things more permanent, more personal. This was Helen’s home; anything of hers interested me. We’d connected through crisis, through sex, and—on my part—through compassion, but I was always on the lookout for something else, even something pedestrian, something more normal, to cement the bond. Something not having to do with the expat life. A new book by Karen Armstrong with “God” in the title lay open on the sofa; my eyes shied away. A DVD lay on top of the silent TV; I recognized it at once. The morning after our first night in bed she’d put it on; she’d said she wanted to hear something familiar, something from home. Irish dance. One of the enthusiasms I’d learned to tolerate.

Then she appeared. Just the sight of her sent my blood racing. Her lips were parted and she smiled like a girl who’d just spied the present she’d been waiting for. Her eyes were slightly closed—like someone holding a secret, maybe a surprise. She glanced to the side and saw the maid darkening the wall like a shadow. “Come to the office,” she told me, brightly, “there’s something I want to show you.”

She led me into the little room with a computer and a desk covered with papers in neat rectangular piles (I’d have preferred it if Harry hadn’t shared my desire for an orderly workspace—I didn’t want even something small to admire), and shut the door after her. She fell into my arms. I was hungry for every inch of her. It wasn’t just sex (although I’d wanted her for days). It was her womanliness, her innocence, her purity.

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