The Forgiven by Lawrence Osborne Page A

what a mess they’ve made.”
    “Are they a bore?”
    “They’re a horrible bore. And did you see Mr. Limey’s shoes?”
    Richard nodded. “It’s a type, Dally. He’s a public school doctor. What do you expect?”
    “I guarantee that tonight they’re the only ones who don’t dress up. They’ll claim they have post-traumatic stress disorder.”
    “I’m sure it’s what they have.”
    “I saw him grab a drink at the breakfast buffet. He was guzzlingit. His hand was shaking. He’s pathetic. Never again with those two, I swear.”
    “Probably wise,” Richard thought dourly.
    “We should have invited the Bainbridges. They’re genuinely wacko at least. And they don’t kill people on the way up.”
    “There’s always next time.”
    They laughed, complicit again. The swirls of dust had reached the cliffs where the tents stood, baking mud-brown in a lengthening sun. Dally poured himself a Scotch. Slowly, Richard got dressed. He loved the desert at this hour. A wild camel nosed its way along the black ribbon of the road, and far off at the opening of the valley a menacing orange light gathered. The fig trees in the garden shuddered as if beaten with sticks, but there was little wind during those moments. The hour of dusk could be tasted, but not seen.
    THE CATTLE EGRETS AND AFRICAN FINCHES CAME BACK TO settle in their ruined nooks, and an old man in a tattered coffee-colored djellaba rolled out of the Toyota jeep that had pulled up in front of the main gates and bared his six gold teeth in a grimace of extreme discomfort. The car that Dally and Richard had seen had savaged number plates and panels patched up with cheap epoxy; its wipers were bent back and the radio antenna had collapsed. The other occupants remained inside, huddled together in their ragged chechs . But at length, as the old man approached the door and took off his cloth cap, they also got out and stretched their legs. “A cold place,” they muttered, keeping their expressions tense. Their clothes were caked with grit and sand, and as they unbent themselves, a small cloud rose from them. They beat their sleeves and chechs gently, stretched their mouths, and looked warily around them. A dark orange powder caked the car, clogging the grille and the side mirrors, and on the backseat lay a large sack of uncooked rice. The men of Azna could tell there were weapons in thecar, though none could see them. There was a smell of weapons. A smell of bullets and goat grease.
    The old man walked up to the closed gate and slowly, orchestrating creaky knees, knelt down in the dust. He settled in, holding his hands together across his chest. His eyes were completely expressionless. Almost under his breath at first, then louder, he said the following words: “I am Abdellah Taheri of the Aït Kebbash from Tafal’aalt. I am here to collect my son. Will you hear me? Will you open your gate?”
    He said it again and again, while his companions watched him impassively. They were middle-aged men with grizzled half-beards and large, blunted hands. They were thin desert men of the far south, with bird-beak noses and stony eyes set close together, their teeth half silver. Their faces were covered; their clothes were white and indigo. Their hands were scarred. They spoke Tamazight.
    Hamid heard the voice at once. He crept to the gate and put his ear against it. It was the thing he had been expecting all along. The old man raised his voice and he repeated his demand until even the guests could hear it. His voice carried far on the shrieking wind. It was a level, grave voice with no trace of hysteria or emotional exaggeration. Like a repeated hammer blow, it struck home until it produced movement, reaction. Voices can open doors. Richard came down quickly to the gate.
    “The father?” he hissed at Hamid.
    The servant nodded.
    “Well, open up, then. Are you going to keep them there?”
    “Are you sure, Monsieur? They are Aït Kebbash.”
    Richard smirked.