Jasmine Nights Read online

  Clear of the city a brand-new life sped past her window – some large and luxurious houses surrounded by trees, an old man sitting by the road having a quiet smoke by a fire; a skinny horse waiting patiently to be unloaded, a group of street children jumping and laughing. Samir, whose wife cleaned their rooms in the mornings, had already told them how dreadful this year’s crops had been, a disaster, great hardship for the villagers, and yet there was a feeling of almost enviable peace and ordinariness about these scenes. Of quiet worlds that would continue stubbornly despite the Desert War.

  It took about forty minutes to get to Giza and the hotel. In a long drive lit with flaming torches Arleta turned and said with some ceremony:

  ‘Girls, I want you to pay attention to me. Tonight is a blue-moon night – and you’re to enjoy every minute of it.’

  Janine, who had complained of car sickness on the way out, looked puzzled, but Saba understood and approved. Blue-moon nights were Arleta-speak for the choicest gigs you could ever possibly get, the magical nights that might only happen once or twice in a lifetime. It was important to recognise them, bask in them, and use them as nourishment for when you were back in some crummy digs in an English seaside town doing panto.

  When the car set them down in front of a glowing building, a uniformed porter wearing a huge ornamental sword stepped forward and helped them out.

  In front of her Saba saw the three ancient Pyramids of Giza, jutting out into a night sky that glittered with a thousand million stars. She was stunned by their beauty – in her mind pyramids belonged with unicorns and mermaids in some other mystical world; they were not the backdrops for a party.

  Even Janine was impressed. ‘Golly,’ she said, her highest accolade. ‘This is actually quite pretty.’

  The hotel itself stood on the crest of a small hill against a cobalt-blue sky. Dozens of lanterns shifting in a slight breeze made the building seem to float against the sky like a skittish little pleasure craft, and lavish planting of jasmine bushes on the terraces made the air piercingly sweet.

  ‘Ready, girls?’ Arleta took both their arms. ‘Down we go.’

  Arleta had a fabulous red-carpet walk, both slouchy and stately, which she deployed to maximum effect on these occasions and which she and Saba sometimes practised for fun in their PJs in their digs. You blanked your eyes, lengthened your neck, stuck your hips out, and swung your bottom negligently as if you didn’t give much of a damn about anything.

  They were having fun with it now as they walked down the short flight of steps that led to the party. A dramatic pause on the first terrace, then the band struck up a jazzy tune, and a group of young men in dinner jackets froze at the sight of them like Pompeii statues. Captain Furness, wearing a regimental bum-freezer dinner jacket that showed a large and surprisingly girlish bottom for a military man, stepped out of the crowd, eager to claim them.

  ‘Before you get lost,’ he put a moist hand on Saba’s arm, ‘there are quite a few people I’d like you to meet,’ and then, as if remembering Mr Manners, ‘Girls, well done, you look jolly nice.’

  Down to the lower terrace now where red-faced servants were adding sprigs of rosemary to an open fire on which two whole skinned lambs were roasting. On a long table beside the fire, a feast was laid out: wobbling terrines, jewel-coloured salads, a large turkey, a mountain of salmon and prawns. Saba, who had hardly eaten since breakfast, felt her mouth fill with saliva, and then the usual pang of guilt. So much food here, and so little at home, it did feel wicked sometimes.

  ‘Look, look, look!’ Arleta’s hair had turned to liquid gold in the firelight. She was as excited as a child. She led Saba down another flight of steps to where a swimming pool framed by masses of tiny candles shimmered and shifted like a vast sapphire.

  Saba began to search the roaring faces for the famous Mr Ozan. She’d imagined him to be old and fat and rich and Middle Eastern-looking, but saw no one who matched that description. The faces on the terrace were mainly pale and European.

  ‘Girls, round me.’ Furness, who seemed slightly plastered, wanted to introduce them to everyone.

  ‘Jolly nice to have some new blood,’ one of the English wives bellowed, an anxious red face gleaming in the lamplight. ‘Lots of us have gone, you see.’

  They were handed from group to group, smiled at, examined closely and asked more or less the same questions: had they come by sea or air? Were they singers or dancers? Gosh, what fun, how marvellous! What discipline! So necessary, one added, to have treats for the men. Now, did they play any instruments? Yes, Arleta extemporised gaily, she played the xylophone; her friend Saba, she’d given her a pinch here, was a dab hand at the Welsh harp. Some admired their frocks and asked for news of home. A couple said they felt guilty about rationing, but what could one do, no point in starving oneself. Another said that when she’d stepped off the ship in Durban with her banker husband a year or so ago, she’d been bowled over by two things: the stunning brightness of the light, and the food, but now she absolutely longed for grey skies, for rain, for home. It frightened her being separated from her children. Particularly at a time like this.

  ‘Now, now, now!’ her husband interrupted. ‘You know the rules. No war talk on a night like this.’ He bared his teeth at the girls. ‘Enjoy it while the going’s good, what?’

  ‘You’ll probably leave too soon,’ the woman muttered before she was led away. Most of the wives and families of military personnel, had already gone to South Africa or Sudan, somewhere safer than here. Her sensible Home Counties face sweated in the flickering light. She pointed out the young, recently widowed wife of a naval officer who’d somehow slipped through the net and not been evacuated. Awfully brave. The woman was listening, polite and attentive, to an older man who was leaning towards her telling a story. She had a small glass of sherry in her hand.

  The moon rose higher, lighting the tips of the Pyramids, more stars came out, dazzling the dark velvet of the sky. The girls were handed around and around like delicacies, until eventually the faces on the terrace grew indistinct, and the older officers said, Gosh! Was that really the time? and pressed sticky hot hands into theirs and said how lovely it had been to meet them, and they would be sure to come and see them in concert. But still no sign of Mr Ozan, and no sign of Mr Cleeve either. Saba didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

  When the old people had gone, the young men loosened their bow ties and took off their dinner jackets. A band started to play some sleepy jazz on a small dance floor fringed with palm trees near the swimming pool.

  But no Mr Ozan. To fill in time, Saba danced with a gaunt young Scottish doctor, who apologised for stepping on her toes. He said he’d been out near Tripoli, operating for six days straight. ‘It’s pretty hairy out there, sorry I’m such a lousy dancer.’ She was rescued by a group of rowdy Desert Air Force pilots who sank to their knees in front of her and declared undying love.

  She was tempted to ask if they knew Dominic but felt she couldn’t face being teased about him, or explain a relationship that basically didn’t exist, and yet – what an idiot – she’d pictured him earlier on the terrace waiting for her, thinking how lovely she looked in her dress.

  She was laughing in a hollow way at herself when suddenly she was aware of a dip in the laughter and the conversation; the band’s tune abruptly ending. The partygoers were turned towards a portly man in a startling burgundy-coloured dinner jacket, making his stately way down the steps. He was patting arms, he was smiling graciously, and now a small wave at the band that had struck up ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’. As he walked towards the dance floor, Arleta appeared at Saba’s side, a gold mermaid in the moonlight.

  ‘One second, darling.’ She smiled charmingly at the young doctor waiting for another dance. She drew Saba aside.

  ‘Zafer Ozan,’ she whispered, her eyes mocking and mirthful, ‘the one I told you about. The stinking-rich one.’

  Ozan had spotted them; he was looking at them both from across the d
ance floor.

  ‘Don’t you think,’ Arleta blew him a kiss, ‘he’s rather attractive in a Bunter sort of a way?’ She waved him over.

  Saba stared at Ozan and looked away. She saw his teeth flash as he shook the hand of another guest. ‘Everyone loves him,’ Arleta said, her blonde hair tickling Saba’s ear. She was wiggling her fingers at him discreetly like a shy little girl.

  ‘You’re a shocking flirt,’ said Saba.

  ‘I know,’ said Arleta happily. ‘And I can assure you he doesn’t mind.’

  As he walked towards them, Arleta said quickly, ‘Darling, as a treat for him, I’m going to ask the band to play “Night and Day”. Would you sing it? It’s his signature tune.’

  ‘Why don’t you sing it?’ Saba was thoroughly confused now: had Cleeve arranged for Arleta to sing too, or was this pure coincidence?

  ‘Come off it, darling. I’m the dancer; you’re the one with the voice. Even bloody old Janine says that.’

  ‘She does?’ Saba was amazed. ‘She never told me.’

  ‘Well of course she hasn’t, silly – she’s jelly bag. I am too, but I’m better at hiding it.’ She play-pinched Saba on the arm. ‘Hop up now before he meets you.’

  Saba got on to the small stage. The little band with its piano and tenor saxophone and double bass apparently knew she was coming. They slipped into the music and when the pianist gave her a wink she joined them, nervous at first because of the strangeness of all this and then forgetting because in the end a song was a song and beyond things. She blotted them all out and closed her eyes and sang into the jasmine-scented night. Happiness flowed like golden honey through her veins. This was what she loved; what she was good at.

  There was a roar of approval when the song was over. Ozan came to the edge of the stage, stood in front of her and just looked at her. His eyes dark, almost bruised-looking, the flames from the fire reflected in them.

  ‘Do you know other songs?’ he said. ‘Sing one for me, please?’

  And knowing this might be her only chance, she launched into a Turkish song, ‘Fikrimin Ince Gülü’, a song her father had once sung and translated for her. You are always in my heart like a delicate rose; you are in my heart like a happy nightingale. The audience looked puzzled, but she saw Mr Ozan’s eyes light up, and how the waiters bustling around him glanced at her in surprise. Next – oh how she was enjoying this suddenly, the night, the challenge of it – the band joined her in a verse of ‘Ozkorini’, a famous Arabic song that Umm Kulthum, the greatest Arabic singer of all, sang. Ozkorini, her father had once explained, meant think of me. Remember me. The waiters surged towards the stage thrilled and clapping, as Saba sang an extract from a song they recognised.

  Saba felt nervous at first stepping in the footsteps of this goddess, but she gave the sobbing lyrics their full worth, and when she’d finished, cries of ‘Allah!’ and ‘Ya Hayya!’ came out of the darkness, and her eyes filled with tears. For that moment her father, her hateful, lovable father, was powerfully with her, and yet he would have hated this.

  Mr Ozan said nothing; he looked at her and shook his head.

  ‘It’s too noisy to talk here,’ he said, gesturing towards the crowd. ‘Tomorrow,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  The band clapped him as he walked away, as if he was the true star of the evening, and then, almost immediately, Captain Furness, who must have been lurking in the undergrowth, jumped on to the stage.

  ‘That was interesting. I didn’t expect that,’ he said into Saba’s ear. Although his lips were smiling, his hand on her arm was tourniquet tight. He said he’d taken the liberty of ordering a taxi for them. He advised Arleta in his barking voice to put her shoes back on; there were scorpions that sometimes hid in the cracks of the pavements. Janine said that was quite right, a friend of hers had ended up in hospital with a very nasty bite. There was still no sign of Cleeve.

  Chapter 12

  By the time they got home, the stars were fading and the pale streaks of dawn breaking over the Nile, an interlude of peace before the insane muddle of daylight in Cairo began.

  ‘Isn’t this so often the best time of a party?’ Arleta stretched out her legs. ‘When you take the wampum off and put on your jammys, and stop showing off.’

  It was four in the morning, and the air was like warm milk. Janine, after doing her fifty splashes, went straight to bed; Arleta and Saba were sitting on their balcony in their pyjamas under a cotton sheet.

  Down in the alleyway, a donkey croaked; the man who sold fly whisks slept beside it on a raffia mat with a few rags over him.

  When Arleta got up to make tea, Saba stayed where she was, her feet still throbbing from the dancing, the music pounding in her veins like a strong drug. She felt the relief a high diver might feel, or a mountain climber, when the scaring thing was done, but ‘Night and Day’ had sounded good, and she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself with ‘Ozkorini’, even though she’d suddenly felt shockingly nervous before singing it.

  ‘Bliss.’ Arleta put a cup of tea and a biscuit in Saba’s hand. ‘Don’t they call this l’heure bleue?’ She’d tied her hair back in an old scarf and changed into a silk kimono. ‘The time when it’s not quite light and not quite dark,’ she closed her eyes, ‘when most people die or fall in love.

  ‘Well you were a big success tonight,’ she said in the same sleepy voice. ‘The belle of the ball, or should I say the belly dancer of the balley. Ozan was very taken.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’ Saba said. The moment the question was out of her mouth, she felt awkward; she didn’t want to start spying on Arleta, but she was curious.

  Arleta yawned. ‘On my first tour with the Merrybelles; the rules were more relaxed so we were allowed to sing for a couple of nights at his nightclub in Alexandria, the Cheval D’Or. It was fun, and I thought he was very attractive and . . .’ She lit a cigarette and flicked the match away. ‘As I said, we were lovers for a while, but not for long. He’d just got married, I think for the third time.’

  Her cigarette hadn’t lit properly, she groped around for another light, and although Saba was shocked, she couldn’t help thinking that Arleta was the least hypocritical woman she’d ever met. She liked, sex, she liked men, none of that mealy-mouthed talk about being led on, or letting the stars get in her eyes, no talk of being duped or dumped or feeling guilty. What a revelation!

  ‘I knew it wouldn’t last,’ Arleta ruminated through a plume of smoke. ‘But it was great fun. I’d just come out of an affair with a real Frigidaire Englishman and it was just what I needed. Also, let’s be frank – he’s the biggest booker of talent in the Middle East and I want to go on working when the war’s over. He’s a good contact for you, Saba.’ Arleta had her professional voice on now. ‘He loves English girls and he was very taken with all that headless horror stuff you did.’ Her name for Eastern music.

  ‘But tell me something, darling.’ Arleta leapt in quickly. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you ever been really in love?’ She squeezed Saba’s hand briefly. ‘Don’t look so shocked – it’s usually the first thing women want to know about each other.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘If you’re, um, not sure, you definitely haven’t been.’

  ‘Ah, so, trick question.’

  ‘Oh get on with it!’ Arleta’s voice came like a lazy slap across the night. ‘Ugh! This tea is vile,’ she said. ‘That ghastly buffalo milk always tastes so funny. There’s half a bottle of champers in the fridge, Willie put it there – it’s a bit flat but better than tea. Come on, and don’t be cross – I want to know everything about you. I bet you’ve had dozens of boyfriends.’ A barefoot Arleta padded back with two glasses and a bottle in her hand. ‘You’re so pretty.’

  ‘I was engaged, but only for a bit,’ Saba explained. ‘And that was because my dad approved of him, and thought I should marry him. His name was Paul Llewellyn. He was in the class above me at school. He was sweet and kind. He wrote poems for me, sai
d we would marry one day. I don’t know why I’m talking about him in the past tense. He’s still alive, he’s in the army, he wants to be a schoolteacher when the war’s over. All his family are schoolteachers. He hated me being a singer.’ She dipped her head, remembering the terrible row. ‘He liked the eisteddfods and the singing competitions, but when he saw me performing in front of men, well he went bloody mad. My father hates it too.’

  She seemed to be blurting things out suddenly, perhaps the champagne or the late hour.

  Arleta tutted and took another sip. ‘Not bad is it, there are still a few bubbles left – carry on.’

  ‘Well, I was doing this show in a factory near Bristol. My first big show really. Lots of men there, but perfectly respectable. I went on stage and sang “Where or When” and a few of the men did, you know, the wolf whistles and whatever. But it was so exciting, Arleta, my first show, and a dressing room even, well just a little bit curtained off. Paul wanted to come. He sent me flowers, he tried to be happy for me, he’d even hired a car, but when we were driving home, he went absolutely silent, and when I asked him what was the matter, he suddenly shouted,’ Saba put down her cup and did his voice, ‘ “You, you’re the matter – you made a real spectacle of yourself tonight.” He said he felt like a twerp sitting there on his own with nothing to do.’

  ‘Oh Lordy, what a fibber he sounds. The truth was, he couldn’t bear it, nor could your father.’

  ‘Bear what?’

  ‘You being the centre of attention. Normal male behaviour in my experience. So then what?’

  ‘It’s different with my father, Arl, it goes so deep with him it hurts, but anyway, this Paul, when he said that, I knew in a flash it wouldn’t work. I can’t stop doing this.’ The pain seemed fresh for a moment. ‘I know it’s not what some men want, but I’ve got to do it. I told him to stop the car, and I got out.’ And she had. They’d been a mile or so from home, and she’d run back past the canal, down to the docks, sobbing her heart out. Her mother had been waiting at the lit door, dying to hear how it had all gone, and one of the worst things about it all was showing up like that all tear-stained and with the new dress Mum had spent hours on, splattered with mud. It was like murdering two dreams at once. Her mother had listened, frozen-faced, then sent her to bed and she’d lain there awake most of the night, her heart filled with a feeling of dreary darkness, a foreboding she couldn’t name.