A Foreign Affair by Stella Russell Page A

its discreet zig-zag pattern was spotless. His marvellous face was neither caked with dust nor greasy with sweat and not a hair on his head was out of place. There was a good deal of the natural aristocrat about the man I was now longing to get to know much, much better.
    ‘Why are you Sheikh Ahmad, why not just Ahmad, like Aziz is just Aziz?’ I enquired of him suddenly.
    ‘I am sheikh because the people of my tribe, the Wadhlis, have agreed that I must be.’
    ‘So you’re the boss of your tribe?’
    ‘Never the boss! Our Arab societies do not like bosses; we hardly have a word for that western idea because no one is happy to be a slave. I must be like a clever guide or a wise father and I can give advice if someone asks me. I make judgments in community legal affairs...’
    ‘So that’s how you knew how many guns to give in compensation for Mohammad’s death.’
    ‘Of course, and I can ask Sanaa for money for a road or a school or a clinic, and receive the usual silence for an answer...’
    For the first time I detected a bitterness in his voice. I might have questioned him further about his feelings towards the government, or at least asked him where his tribal land was located, but frankly, just at that moment I was more interested in discovering where he fitted into Yemen’s social pecking order. I was beginning to suspect that if all went according to my plan, I would shortly be making the beast with two backs with the Yemeni equivalent of Viscount Linley.
    ‘Did you inherit the job of sheikh from your father?’
    ‘Yes, but it is not an automatic thing like in your royal family,’ he explained. ‘I am the sixteenth son of my father, almost the youngest, but the elders of the tribe judged that I was the most capable of doing the job.’
    ‘Is it because you are a sheikh that you are recognised by even the boys at the check-point?’
    ‘Yes!’ he replied with a light laugh, as if the directness of my question were somehow indecent.
    He must be an aristocrat, I concluded. An English lord being quizzed by a foreign visitor as to why the village folk touched their caps at him whenever he passed would have responded with precisely the same blend of modesty and irritation. While I’ve tended to view the upper echelons of British society as my natural hunting ground when it comes to sexual partners, I’ve always discovered my prey to be too effete and inbred to linger there long. The siren call of the more wild or exotic always lures me away. But here, like a bespoke answer to a girl’s prayer, was a two-in-one: a wildly exotic aristocrat. I was beginning to feel as breathlessly excited as a teenage girl on the eve of her first date.
    The Aden Sheraton was some way out of town, and perched up high on a cliff with a sea view. If I hadn’t recently been threatened with a lengthy sojourn in a mud castle with a fly-infested privy, I would have noted the tiny tell-tale signs that business was not as good as it might be. I’d probably have seen that its marble front steps were chipped, the glass in its revolving door a little smudged and the surface of the wooden reception desk greasy. As it was, I was far too starry-eyed to notice anything of the sort and, even if I had, my exultant mood and the friendly service would have amply made up for any shortcomings. Sheikh Ahmad and I were enthusiastically welcomed by a receptionist who turned out to be a member of his tribe. A quick-fire exchange of friendly Arabic between the two men secured me a room with a balcony and a sea view, plus the key to a mini-bar.
    The room was as spacious as I could have hoped, its bed as emperor-sized and its en suite as generously provided with fluffy towels and perfumed unguents as anyone could have asked for.
    ‘You won’t mind helping yourself to something from the mini-bar and relaxing on the balcony while I have a quick shower, will you?’
    I think I sounded confidently in control, but I didn’t feel it. The sheikh didn’t